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-sodded 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 horseguards’ clangor
      On our flanks;
  Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old fashioned fire
      Through the ranks!

    Then the bare-headed colonel
    Galloped through the white infernal
      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 M’MASTER.

* * * * *

THE DANCE.

[Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.]

  Cornwallis led a country dance,
    The like was never seen, sir,
  Much retrogade and much advance,
    And all with General Greene, sir.

  They rambled up and rambled down,
    Joined hands, then off they run, sir. 
  Our General Greene to Charlestown,
    The earl to Wilmington, sir.

  Greene in the South then danced a set. 
    And got a mighty name, sir,
  Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,
    But suffered in his fame, sir.

  Then down he figured to the shore,
    Most like a lordly dancer,
  And on his courtly honor swore
    He would no more advance, sir.

  Quoth he, my guards are weary grown
    With footing country dances,
  They never at St. James’s shone,
    At capers, kicks, or prances.

  Though men so gallant ne’er were seen,
    While sauntering on parade, sir,
  Or wiggling o’er the park’s smooth green,
    Or at a masquerade, sir.

  Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
    For stumps and briars meet, sir? 
  Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
    Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

  Now housed in York, he challenged all,
    At minuet or all ’amande,
  And lessons for a courtly ball
    His guards by day and night conned.

  This challenge known, full soon there came
    A set who had the bon ton,
  De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
    Fut brillant pour un long tems.