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.

* * * * *

CARMEN BELLICOSUM.

  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!