| Our band is few, but true and tried, |
| Our leader frank and bold; |
| The British soldier trembles |
| When Marion's name is told. |
| Our fortress is the good green wood, |
| Our tent the cypress tree; |
| We know the forest round us |
| As seamen know the sea; |
| We know its walls of thorny vines, |
| Its glades of reedy grass, |
| Its safe and silent islands |
| Within the dark morass. |
| |
| Woe to the English soldiery |
| That little dread us near! |
| On them shall light at midnight |
| A strange and sudden fear: |
| When, waking to their tents on fire, |
| They grasp their arms in vain, |
| And they who stand to face us |
| Are beat to earth again; |
| And they who fly in terror deem |
| A mighty host behind, |
| And hear the tramp of thousands |
| Upon the hollow wind. |
| |
| Then sweet the hour that brings release |
| From danger and from toil; |
| We talk the battle over |
| And share the battle's spoil. |
| The woodland rings with laugh and shout |
| As if a hunt were up, |
| And woodland flowers are gathered |
| To crown the soldier's cup. |
| With merry songs we mock the wind |
| That in the pine-top grieves, |
| And slumber long and sweetly |
| On beds of oaken leaves. |
| |
| Well knows the fair and friendly moon |
| The band that Marion leads— |
| The glitter of their rifles, |
| The scampering of their steeds. |
| 'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide |
| Across the moonlight plains; |
| 'Tis life to feel the night wind |
| That lifts their tossing manes. |
| A moment in the British camp— |
| A moment—and away— |
| Back to the pathless forest |
| Before the peep of day. |
| |
| Grave men there are by broad Santee, |
| Grave men with hoary hairs; |
| Their hearts are all with Marion, |
| For Marion are their prayers. |
| And lovely ladies greet our band |
| With kindliest welcoming, |
| With smiles like those of summer, |
| And tears like those of spring. |
| For them we wear these trusty arms, |
| And lay them down no more |
| Till we have driven the Briton |
| Forever from our shore. |
| |
| William Cullen Bryant. |
| The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, |
| In the ranks of death you'll find him; |
| His father's sword he has girded on, |
| And his wild harp slung behind him.— |
| "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, |
| "Though all the world betrays thee, |
| One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, |
| One faithful harp shall praise thee!" |
| The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain |
| Could not bring his proud soul under; |
| The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, |
| For he tore its chords asunder; |
| And said, "No chains shall sully thee, |
| Thou soul of love and bravery! |
| Thy songs were made for the pure and free, |
| They shall never sound in slavery!" |
| |
| Thomas Moore. |
| Our old brown homestead reared its walls, |
| From the wayside dust aloof, |
| Where the apple-boughs could almost cast |
| Their fruitage on its roof: |
| And the cherry-tree so near it grew, |
| That when awake I've lain, |
| In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs, |
| As they creaked against the pane: |
| And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees! |
| I've seen my little brothers rocked |
| In their tops by the summer breeze. |
| |
| The sweet-brier under the window-sill, |
| Which the early birds made glad, |
| And the damask rose by the garden fence |
| Were all the flowers we had. |
| I've looked at many a flower since then, |
| Exotics rich and rare, |
| That to other eyes were lovelier, |
| But not to me so fair; |
| O those roses bright, O those roses bright! |
| I have twined them with my sister's locks, |
| That are hid in the dust from sight! |
| |
| We had a well, a deep old well, |
| Where the spring was never dry, |
| And the cool drops down from the mossy stones |
| Were falling constantly: |
| And there never was water half so sweet |
| As that in my little cup, |
| Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, |
| Which my father's hand set up; |
| And that deep old well, O that deep old well! |
| I remember yet the splashing sound |
| Of the bucket as it fell. |
| |
| Our homestead had an ample hearth, |
| Where at night we loved to meet; |
| There my mother's voice was always kind, |
| And her smile was always sweet; |
| And there I've sat on my father's knee, |
| And watched his thoughtful brow, |
| With my childish hand in his raven hair,— |
| That hair is silver now! |
| But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light! |
| And my father's look, and my mother's smile,— |
| They are in my heart to-night. |
| |
| Phoebe Cary. |