THE OLD CONTINENTALS. In their ragged regimentals When the grenadiers were lunging, Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sod ded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gun powder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges And the "villanous saltpetre" As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks ! Then the old-fashioned colonel And his broad-sword was swinging, Then the blue And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six pounder, Hurling death! GUY HUMPHREY MOMASTER. SONG OF MARION'S MEN. Our band is few, but true and tried, Its safe and silent islands Woe to the English soldiery 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, 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 scampering of their steeds. Grave men there are by broad Santee- Forever from our shore. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. CASABIANCA. The boy stood on the burning deck The flame that lit the battle's wreck Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on-he would not go That father, faint in death below, He called aloud, "Say, father, say, He knew not that the chieftain lay "Speak, father," once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And look'd from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair. |