His left hand on his sword belt, his right lifted free,
With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,
His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing
"Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" T.was three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms, When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout, With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without, Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,
"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout, That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt, And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,
"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day. Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din! T is the front wall besieged have the rebels rushed in? It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring Of Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" Meanwhile, through the town like whirlwind we sped, And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red; And the ground here and there by an ominous stain Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain: A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose, With his waddling bowlegs, and his trappings all loose, By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down, To the shoulder-blade, cleaving him sheer through the crown, And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"
