They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,
Despite your hireling band!
The farmer boys have borne a brunt,
The 'prentice lads will stand!
Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,
Our fight's as good as won;
We've made them yield in open field!
We've made the Redcoats run!
Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn
With [Knowlton] at their head
To rout the British pickets out
And spend a little lead.
We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,
And hurried, fighting, back;
For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps
Were keen upon our track.
Along the vale of Bloomingdale
They pressed our scant array;
They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag
Across the Hollow Way.
Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"
Their buglers, from the wall,
In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt
Brayed out the hunting call!
Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame
In every sunburned face,
And every soul was hot as coal
To cleanse the foul disgrace.
And some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights
And fled at Turtle Bay
Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path
And clamored for the fray.
Our General came spurring!—
There rolled a signal drum.—
His eye was bright; he rose his height;
He knew the time had come.
He gave the word to Knowlton
To lead us on once more—
The pick of old Connecticut,—
And Leitch with Weedon's corps