To pick out a man from a coming band,
When I felt on my throat a foeman’s hand.
At the tightening grasp my eyes grew dim;
But I saw ’twas a Mingo, stout of limb,
And fierce was the struggle I made with him.
Deep peril hung upon my life;
My foot gave way in the fearful strife,
The wretch was o’er me with his knife.
In my hair his eager fingers played,
I felt the keen edge of his blade;