218
SONGS FROM THE SOUTHERN SEAS.
I said our troops were routed. Far and near they broke and fled,
The grape-shot tearing through them, leaving lanes of mangled dead.
All order lost, they left the fight,—they threw their arms away,
And joined in one wild panic rout,—ah! 'twas a bitter day!
"But did I say that all was lost? Nay, one brave corps stood fast.
Determined they would never fly, but fight it to the last.
They barred the Frenchman from his prey, and his whole fury braved,—
One brief hour could they hold their ground, the army might be saved.
Fresh troops were hurrying to our aid,—we saw their glittering head,—
Ah, God how those brave hearts were raked by the death-shower of lead!
But stand they did: they never flinched nor took one backward stride,
