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THE OLD CONTINENTALS.

In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old continentals,
Yielding not,

When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging

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,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly

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
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoneers:

And the "villanous saltpetre"
Rung a fierce, discordant metre
Round their ears;

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
Galloped through the white inferual
Powder-cloud;

And his broad-sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet loud.

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

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,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
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 to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
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.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father," once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

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.

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