Prancing soldados so martial and bluff,
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff—
But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer,
And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.
There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,
And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the mills;
By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,
And keen cracked the rifles in Martense’s lane;
For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,
And the grenadiers’ tramp marked the roll of the dead.