But turn we to the Hudson's banks,
Where stood the modest train,
With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,
Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.
For them the unrelenting hand
Of rebel fury drove,
And tore from ev'ry genial band
Of friendship and of love.
And some within the dungeon's gloom,
By mock tribunals laid,
Had waited long a cruel doom
Impending o'er each head.
Here one bewails a brother's fate,
There one a sire demands,
Cut off, alas! before their date,
By ignominious hands.
And silver'd grandsires here appear'd
In deep distress serene,
Of reverent manners that declar'd
The better days they'd seen.
Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,
Thine all these tales of woe;
Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine
Blood never cease to flow?
And now the foe began to lead
His forces to th' attack;
Balls whistling unto balls succeed,
And make the blockhouse crack.
No shot could pass, if you will take
The Gen'ral's word for true;
But 'tis a d——ble mistake,
For ev'ry shot went thro'.
The firmer as the rebels press'd,
The loyal heroes stand;
Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,
And industry each hand.
In valor's frenzy, Hamilton
Rode like a soldier big,
And Secretary Harrison,
With pen stuck in his wig.