On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;
Once more our men retreated, when Bragg again came on,
And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:
Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,
And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!
Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac
On Buena Vista, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.
On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,
We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;
And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,