The Citadel had greeted us, but we passed along the plain,
While its showers of grape and musket-shot deluged our ranks like rain;
But fierce and hot as was its fire, ’twas naught to what ensued
When in the suburbs narrow ways our little phalanx stood;
But Butler led us on, and we swore to win the day
Or die, like Yankee volunteers, in the streets of Monterey.
The cannon of the Citadel still swept our falling flanks —
The guns of Fort Teneria sent death throughout our ranks; —
Every window, door and house-top concealed a hidden foe,
Who sent his leaden welcome to the files that fought below: