Told of brethren and of neighbors lying corses stiff and gory.
Stops the plough and sleeps the shuttle, stills the blacksmith’s noisy hammer,
Come the farmer, smith, and weaver, with a wrath too deep for clamor;
But their fiercely purposed doing every glance they give avouches,
As they handle rusty firelocks, powder-horns, and bullet-pouches;
As they hurry from the workshops, from the fields, and from the forges,
Venting curses deep and bitter on the latest of the Georges.
Matrons gather at the portals—some with children round them grouping,
Some are filled with exultation, some are sad of soul and drooping—
Gazing at our hasty levies as they march unskilled but steady,