From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,
Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.
In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error
When his force was made our ready blows to feel;
When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror
At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.
All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,
Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;
There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,
Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries’ heavy tramp.