Now mustering yet disordered forth they come,
For spreads the alarm: Alerte! alerte!’s the cry.
The hurrying leaders urge them—rolls the drum,
And to San Marcial’s thunderous guns reply
Their cannon from the Grand Monarque on high.
But all too late the movement—see, their camp
Beneath Andaye is carried manfully
At glittering point of bayonet. Nought can damp
The ardour of our men, or check their onward tramp.