We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,
Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.
Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous sound
Came rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;
But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighs
Spoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;
Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,
And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”
Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,
Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;