Some minutes they sustained the fire,
But ere they were aware,
They were encompassed all around,
Which prov'd a fatal snare.
And then they did attempt to fly,
But all was now in vain,
Their little host—by far the most—
Was by those Indians slain.
And as they fly, for quarters cry;
Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!
Hard to relate—their dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given.
With bitter cries and mournful sighs,
They seek some safe retreat,
Run here and there, they know not where,
Till awful death they meet.
Their piercing cries salute the skies—
Mercy is all their cry:
"Our souls prepare God's grace to share,
We instantly must die."
Some men yet found are flying round
Sagacious to get clear;
In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!
They front the flank and rear.
And now the foe hath won the day,
Methinks their words are these:
"Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,
Will this your Congress please?
"Your pardons crave, you them shall have,
Behold them in our hands;
We'll all agree to set you free,
By dashing out your brains.
"And as for you, enlisted crew,
We'll raise your honors higher:
Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,
In yonder burning fire."
Then naked in those flames they're cast,
Too dreadful 'tis to tell,
Where they must fry, and burn and die,
While cursed Indians yell.