’Twas gallant Rey, who made a night-sortie—
Last effort tried ere come the dire assault.
Our piquets on the Isthmus slaughtered see,
Ta’en by surprise or ere they can cry Halt!
Loud rose the Frenchmen’s En avant! At fault,
Our sentries for a time unaided bleed,
The deadly death-tubes rending the black vault;
But soon a furious contest raged indeed—
Our startled piquets rush, their firelocks flash with speed.
XXIII.