Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—
They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—
While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after
Rang around each creaking wain of the train.
’Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning
Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton’s might;
Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,
Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;
Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,
And the corses gory red of the dead.