Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed

The blood of those stout farmers, aiming

For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming.

[Pg 30]

Onward once more they came.

Another sheet of deathful flame!

Another and another still!

They broke, they fled,

Again they sped

Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,

Stormed with commanders’ rage.

Into each emptied barge

They crowd fresh men for a new charge

Up that great hill.

Again their gallant blood we spill.

That volley was the last:

Our powder failed.

On three sides fast

The foe pressed in, nor quailed

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