Came flying all abroad,
And canon, colors, horse and man
Ran tumbling to the road.
Still as he fled, ’twas Irving’s cry,
And his example too,
“Run on, my merry men—For why?
[[16]]The shot will not go thro’.”
As when two kennels in the street,
Swell’d with a recent rain,
In gushing streams together meet,