A CUP of your potent "mountain dew,"
By the camp-fire's ruddy light;
Let us drink to a spirit as leal and true
As ever drew blade in fight,
And dashed on the foeman's lines of steel,
For God and his people's right.
By heaven! it seems that his very name
Embodies a thought of fire;
It strikes on the ear with a sense of flame,
And the life-blood boundeth higher,
While the pulses leap and the brain expands,
In the glow of a grand desire.
Hark! in the day-dawn's misty gray,
Our bugles are ringing loud,
And hot for the joy of a coming fray,
Our souls wax fierce and proud,
As we list for the word that shall launch us forth,
Like bolts from the mountain-cloud.
We list for the word, and it comes at length,
In a strain so mighty and clear,
That we rise to the sound with all added strength,
And our hearts are glad to hear,
And a stir, like the breath of the boding storm
Thrills through us, from van to rear.
Then, with the rush of the whirlwind freed,
We rush, by a secret way,
And merry on sabre, and helmet, and steed,
Do the autumn sunbeams play,
And the devil must sharpen his keenest wits,
To rescue "his own" to-day.
Ho, ye who dwell in the fertile vales,
Of the pleasant land of Penn,
Who feast on the fat of her fruitful dales,
How little ye dream or ken
That the southern Murat has bared his brand,
That the Stuart rides again.
"Close up, close up! we have travelled long,
But a jovial night's in store,
A night of wassail, and wit, and song,
In yon cosy town before.
Quick, sergeant! spur to the front in haste,
And knock at the mayor's door."
Behold, he comes with a ghost-like grace,
And his knee-joints out of tune;
And the cold, cold sweat runs down his face,
I' the light of the autumn moon,
While his husky voice, like an ancient crone's,
Dies in a hollow croon.
He cannot speak; but his buxom dame,
With her trembling daughters nigh,
Shrieks out, "Oh, honor their virgin fame,
Pass the poor maidens by."
(Whereon, with a grievous heave and sob,
She paused in her speech--to cry.)
"Rise up! we leave to the churlish brood
Our vengeance hath sought ere now,
The fame which springs from the ruthless mood
That crimsons a woman's brow;
For sons are we of a kindly race,
And bound by a knightly vow.
"Rise up! we war with the strong alone;
For where was the caitiff found,
To sport with an outraged woman's moan,
Where the southern trumpets sound?
. . . . .
"Enough! while I speak of the past, my lad,
There's coming--(hush! lean these near!)
--There's coming a raid that shall drive them mad,
And cover their land with fear;
And You and I, by the blessing of God,
Ay, you and I shall be there."
