For they all thought he was dying, as they
gathered
'round
him crying,--
And they said, "O, how they'll miss him!
him crying,--
And they said, "O, how they'll miss him!
Matthews - Poems of American Patriotism
up the earthwork they
will swarm!
But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous
calm is broken,
And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they
have run for:
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now! "
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's
features,
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll
try it--
Here's damnation to the cut-throats! " then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky:
I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;"
So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,
Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,
As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping
round to four,
When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets
fixed for storming:
It's the death grip that's a coming,--they will try the works
once more. "
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling--
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!
Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story,
How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,
With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,--
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his
wound! "
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from
which he came was,
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round
him crying,--
And they said, "O, how they'll miss him! " and, "What will
his mother do? "
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother! "--and--I saw his eyes were blue.
--"Why, grandma, how you're winking! "--Ah, my child, it
sets me thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather;
--"Please to tell us what his name was? "--Just your own,
my little dear,--
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,
That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all
are here!
WARREN'S ADDRESS
JOHN PIERPONT
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a
Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which
he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the
field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to
surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him
instantly. _
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
will swarm!
But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous
calm is broken,
And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they
have run for:
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now! "
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's
features,
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll
try it--
Here's damnation to the cut-throats! " then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky:
I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;"
So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,
Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,
As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping
round to four,
When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets
fixed for storming:
It's the death grip that's a coming,--they will try the works
once more. "
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling--
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!
Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story,
How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,
With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,--
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his
wound! "
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from
which he came was,
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round
him crying,--
And they said, "O, how they'll miss him! " and, "What will
his mother do? "
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother! "--and--I saw his eyes were blue.
--"Why, grandma, how you're winking! "--Ah, my child, it
sets me thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather;
--"Please to tell us what his name was? "--Just your own,
my little dear,--
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,
That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all
are here!
WARREN'S ADDRESS
JOHN PIERPONT
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a
Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which
he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the
field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to
surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him
instantly. _
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
