The rider pitched over; his comrades they heard
His yell as he fell; but they turned and they spurred,
For by this time our camp was aroused and poured in,
And the visitors stayed not their laurels to win;
When what does this Hotspur but spring to his feet,
And, ready a regiment singly to meet,
Draw weapon, and there, right in front of our line,
To guard bring his sabre, and cross it with mine.
’Twas a regular duel: our men gathered round;
Save the clash of the blades there was never a sound.