Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on,
And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side.
The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks,
The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain,—
Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood
From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm-tost main.
III
Hark! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings;—
Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar;—
The red line forms;—revenge in every eye,