One by one they slew his men:  still the chief their chase evaded. 
He had vanished from their ken, by the Fiend or Fortune aided—­
Either fled to Powles Hoek, where the Briton yet commanded,
Or his stamping-ground forsook, waiting till the hunt disbanded;
So they checked pursuit at length, and returned to toil securely: 
It was useless wasting strength on a purpose baffled surely. 
But the two Van Valens swore, in a patriotic rapture,
They would never give it o’er till they’d either kill or capture

                                                Jack, the Regular.

Long they hunted through the wood, long they slept upon the hillside;
In the forest sought their food, drank when thirsty at the rill-side;
No exposure counted hard—­theirs was hunting border-fashion: 
They grew bearded like the pard, and their chase became a passion: 
Even friends esteemed them mad, said their minds were out of balance,
Mourned the cruel fate and sad fallen on the poor Van Valens;
But they answered to it all, “Only wait our loud view-holloa
When the prey shall to us fall, for to death we mean to follow

                                                Jack, the Regular.”

Hunted they from Tenavlieon to where the Hudson presses
To the base of traprocks high; through Moonachie’s damp recesses;
Down as far as Bergen Hill; by the Ramapo and Drochy,
Overproek and Pellum Kill—­meadows flat and hilltops rocky—­
Till at last the brothers stood where the road from New Barbadoes,
At the English Neighborhood, slants toward the Palisadoes;
Still to find the prey they sought left no sign for hunter eager: 
Followed steady, not yet caught, was the skulking, fox-like leaguer

                                                Jack, the Regular.

Who are they that yonder creep by those bleak rocks in the distance,
Like the figures born in sleep, called by slumber to existence?—­
Tories doubtless from below, from the Hoek, sent out for spying. 
“No! the foremost is our foe—­he so long before us flying! 
Now he spies us! see him start! wave his kerchief like a banner! 
Lay his left hand on his heart in a proud, insulting manner. 
Well he knows that distant spot’s past our ball, his low scorn flinging. 
If you cannot feel the shot, you shall hear the firelock’s ringing,

                                                Jack, the Regular!”

Ha! he falls!  An ambuscade?  ’Twas impossible to strike him! 
Are there Tories in the glade?  Such a trick is very like him. 
See! his comrade by him kneels, turning him in terror over,
Then takes nimbly to his heels.  Have they really slain the rover? 
It is worth some risk to know; so, with firelocks poised and ready,
Up the sloping hills they go, with a quick lookout and steady. 
Dead!  The random shot had struck, to the heart had pierced the Tory—­
Vengeance seconded by luck!  Lies there, cold and stiff and gory,

                                                Jack, the Regular.