"Six thousand fighting men or more,
Protect the Carolina shore,
And Freedom will defend;
And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,
'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,
How vainly they contend."
But ere he spake, in dread array,
To rebel foes, ill-fated day,
The British boys appear;
Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,
And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,
Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.
See Clinton brave, serene, and great,
For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,
Direct the thund'ring fight,
While Mars, propitious god of war,
Looks down from his triumphal car
With wonder and delight.
"Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,
'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine
A great immortal name,
And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appear
Conspicuous each revolving year,
The pledge of future fame."
Our tars, their share of glories won,
For they among the bravest shone,
Undaunted, firm, and bold;
Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd
Hearts which with native valor glow'd,
Hearts of true British mould.
The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British; estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion, perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy in legitimate warfare.
THE SWAMP FOX
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we;
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress-tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer's den,
Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.
We fly by day and shun its light,
But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,
We mount and start with early night,
And through the forest track our foe.
And soon he hears our chargers leap,
The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,
And ere he drives away his sleep,
And rushes from his camp, he dies.
Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
That will not ask a kind caress
To swim the Santee at our need,
When on his heels the foemen press,—
The true heart and the ready hand,
The spirit stubborn to be free,
The twisted bore, the smiting brand,—
And we are Marion's men, you see.