I sent the lead, as mother said, two fingers’ length below
The ridge that marked the collar-bone, and laughed when fell the foe.
There comes a pause within the fight—we see some horsemen group,
And on the breastwork ridge take line, a dark and threatening troop—
Compact they form, with sabres drawn, upon our force to swoop.
Oh, now we smile a grimly smile, and wrath our bosom stirs;
We newly load and careful prime our firelocks for the curs—
For well we know their uniform, those Brunswicker chasseurs!
They come at last whose doom was past long, weary months before—
They come to meet the death that we to deal upon them swore