CHAPTER XI

When Carolina's hope grew paleBefore the British lion's tread,And Freedom's sigh in every galeWas heard above her martyr'd dead;When from her mountain heights subdued,In pride of place forbid to soar,Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood,Lay sullen on the indignant shore,Breathing revenge, invoking doom,Tyrant! upon thy purple host,When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom,And silence brooded o'er her coast,Stealthy, as when from thicket dun,The Indian springs upon his bow,Up rose,South Mount, thy warrior son,And headlong darted on the foe.Not in the pride of war he came,With bugle note and banner high,And nodding plume, and steel of flame,Red battle's gorgeous panoply!With followers few, but undismay'd,Each change and chance of fate withstood,Beneath her sunshine and her shade,The same heroic brotherhood!From secret nook, in other land,Emerging fleet along the pine,Prone down he flew before his band,Like eagle on the British line!Catacoba's waters smiled again,To see her Sumter's soul in arms;And issuing from each glade and glen,Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,Throng'd hundreds through the solitudeOf the wild forest, to the callOf him whose spirit, unsubdued,Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.By day the burning sands they ply,Night sees them in the fell ravine;Familiar to each follower's eye,The tangled brake, the hall of green.Roused by their tread from covert deep,Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while nearIs heard, forbidding thought of sleep,The rattling serpent's sound of fear!Before or break of early morn,Or fox looks out from copse to close,Before the hunter winds his horn.Sumter's already on his foes!He beat them back! beneath the flameOf valor quailing, or the shock!And carved, at last, a hero's nameUpon the glorious Hanging Rock!And time, that shades or sears the wreath,Where glory binds the soldier's brow,Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death,His hour of proudest triumph, now.And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shoreWhere Sumter bled, nor bled in vain;A thousand hearts shall break, beforeThey wear the oppressor's chains again.O never can thy sons forgetThe mighty lessons taught by thee;Since—treasured by the eternal debt—Their watchword is thy memory!J. W. Simmons.

When Carolina's hope grew paleBefore the British lion's tread,And Freedom's sigh in every galeWas heard above her martyr'd dead;

When from her mountain heights subdued,In pride of place forbid to soar,Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood,Lay sullen on the indignant shore,

Breathing revenge, invoking doom,Tyrant! upon thy purple host,When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom,And silence brooded o'er her coast,

Stealthy, as when from thicket dun,The Indian springs upon his bow,Up rose,South Mount, thy warrior son,And headlong darted on the foe.

Not in the pride of war he came,With bugle note and banner high,And nodding plume, and steel of flame,Red battle's gorgeous panoply!

With followers few, but undismay'd,Each change and chance of fate withstood,Beneath her sunshine and her shade,The same heroic brotherhood!

From secret nook, in other land,Emerging fleet along the pine,Prone down he flew before his band,Like eagle on the British line!

Catacoba's waters smiled again,To see her Sumter's soul in arms;And issuing from each glade and glen,Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,

Throng'd hundreds through the solitudeOf the wild forest, to the callOf him whose spirit, unsubdued,Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.

By day the burning sands they ply,Night sees them in the fell ravine;Familiar to each follower's eye,The tangled brake, the hall of green.

Roused by their tread from covert deep,Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while nearIs heard, forbidding thought of sleep,The rattling serpent's sound of fear!

Before or break of early morn,Or fox looks out from copse to close,Before the hunter winds his horn.Sumter's already on his foes!

He beat them back! beneath the flameOf valor quailing, or the shock!And carved, at last, a hero's nameUpon the glorious Hanging Rock!

And time, that shades or sears the wreath,Where glory binds the soldier's brow,Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death,His hour of proudest triumph, now.

And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shoreWhere Sumter bled, nor bled in vain;A thousand hearts shall break, beforeThey wear the oppressor's chains again.

O never can thy sons forgetThe mighty lessons taught by thee;Since—treasured by the eternal debt—Their watchword is thy memory!

J. W. Simmons.

South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis, elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain, and either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN

[October 7, 1780]

'Twas on a pleasant mountainThe Tory heathens lay,With a doughty major at their head,One Ferguson, they say.Cornwallis had detach'd himA-thieving for to go,And catch the Carolina men,Or bring the rebels low.The scamp had rang'd the countryIn search of royal aid,And with his owls, perchèd on high,He taught them all his trade.But ah! that fatal morning,When Shelby brave drew near!'Tis certainly a warningThat ministers should hear.And Campbell, and Cleveland,And Colonel Sevier,Each with a band of gallant men,To Ferguson appear.Just as the sun was settingBehind the western hills,Just then our trusty rifles sentA dose of leaden pills.Up, up the steep togetherBrave Williams led his troop,And join'd by Winston, bold and true,Disturb'd the Tory coop.The royal slaves, the royal owls,Flew high on every hand;But soon they settled—gave a howl,And quarter'd to Cleveland.I would not tell the numberOf Tories slain that day,But surely it is certainThat none did run away.For all that were a-living,Were happy to give up;So let us make thanksgiving,And pass the bright tin-cup.To all the brave regiments,Let's toast 'em for their health,And may our good countryHave quietude and wealth.

'Twas on a pleasant mountainThe Tory heathens lay,With a doughty major at their head,One Ferguson, they say.

Cornwallis had detach'd himA-thieving for to go,And catch the Carolina men,Or bring the rebels low.

The scamp had rang'd the countryIn search of royal aid,And with his owls, perchèd on high,He taught them all his trade.

But ah! that fatal morning,When Shelby brave drew near!'Tis certainly a warningThat ministers should hear.

And Campbell, and Cleveland,And Colonel Sevier,Each with a band of gallant men,To Ferguson appear.

Just as the sun was settingBehind the western hills,Just then our trusty rifles sentA dose of leaden pills.

Up, up the steep togetherBrave Williams led his troop,And join'd by Winston, bold and true,Disturb'd the Tory coop.

The royal slaves, the royal owls,Flew high on every hand;But soon they settled—gave a howl,And quarter'd to Cleveland.

I would not tell the numberOf Tories slain that day,But surely it is certainThat none did run away.

For all that were a-living,Were happy to give up;So let us make thanksgiving,And pass the bright tin-cup.

To all the brave regiments,Let's toast 'em for their health,And may our good countryHave quietude and wealth.

This brilliant victory restored hope to the patriots of the South, and Cornwallis soon found himself in a dangerous position. He was finally forced to detach Tarleton, with eleven hundred men, to attack Daniel Morgan's little army of nine hundred men, which was threatening his line of communications. On Tarleton's approach, Morgan retreated to a grazing ground known as the Cowpens near King's Mountain, and here, on January 17, 1781, Tarleton attacked him, only to be completely routed.

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS

[January 17, 1781]

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error,When his force was made our ready blows to feel;When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terrorAt the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces,Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses,Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favorThat they scarce would care to follow us again;In the rear, the Continentals—none were readier, nor braver;In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forcesWaiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses,Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall.Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing—It was then upon the very nick of nine.Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer,There was naught about them fearful, after all,Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer,"Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brotherWho was slain while asking quarter at their hand;Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my motherFrom our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten.Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafterOf the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me—No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leadenPattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's;On your rifles and a careful aim rely.They were trained in many battles—we in workshops, fields, and forges;But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yellingOf his men we heard his voice's brazen tone;With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features tellingIn their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firingOf our forward line upon their close-set ranks;Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring.Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er usFilled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us,Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar;Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet ragingOf the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leadenStorm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden;Tarleton gave the closing order—"Bring to action the reserve!"Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward,And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward,With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.Morgan gave his order clearly—"Fall back nearly to the borderOf the hill and let the enemy come nigher!"Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,When out rang the voice of Howard—"To the right about, face!—Fire!"Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard—"Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"—and we did it with a will.In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding fasterThan their comrades on our rear in fury bore;But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them;In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness—We had never seen such running in our lives!Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them!To their home o'er ocean never sailing back;After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I notedTied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devotedHim, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.For that token in the summer had been from our cabin takenBy the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;'Twas my sister's—for the moment things around me were forsaken;I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;Vain to me they looked for succor in their need.O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim;As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him—Horse and rider—down together went the twain:"Quarter!"—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er him;Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain—Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.Thomas Dunn English.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error,When his force was made our ready blows to feel;When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terrorAt the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces,Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses,Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favorThat they scarce would care to follow us again;In the rear, the Continentals—none were readier, nor braver;In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forcesWaiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses,Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing—It was then upon the very nick of nine.Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer,There was naught about them fearful, after all,Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer,"Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brotherWho was slain while asking quarter at their hand;Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my motherFrom our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten.Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafterOf the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me—No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leadenPattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's;On your rifles and a careful aim rely.They were trained in many battles—we in workshops, fields, and forges;But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."

Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yellingOf his men we heard his voice's brazen tone;With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features tellingIn their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firingOf our forward line upon their close-set ranks;Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring.Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er usFilled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us,Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar;Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet ragingOf the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leadenStorm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden;Tarleton gave the closing order—"Bring to action the reserve!"

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward,And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward,With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly—"Fall back nearly to the borderOf the hill and let the enemy come nigher!"Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,When out rang the voice of Howard—"To the right about, face!—Fire!"

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard—"Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"—and we did it with a will.

In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding fasterThan their comrades on our rear in fury bore;But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them;In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness—We had never seen such running in our lives!Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them!To their home o'er ocean never sailing back;After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I notedTied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devotedHim, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin takenBy the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;'Twas my sister's—for the moment things around me were forsaken;I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;Vain to me they looked for succor in their need.O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim;As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him—Horse and rider—down together went the twain:

"Quarter!"—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er him;Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain—Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.

Thomas Dunn English.

Tarleton's defeat deprived Cornwallis of nearly a third of his forces, and his situation became more desperate than ever. He kept on across North Carolina and engaged Greene in an indecisive action at Guilford Court-House on March 15, and then retreated to Wilmington. Greene, with splendid strategy, started at once for South Carolina, captured nearly all the forts there in British hands, and on September 8 fell upon the British at Eutaw Springs, compelling them to retreat to Charleston.

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW

[September 8, 1781]

Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain,And it speaks to our heart in its pride,As it tells of the bearing of heroesWho compassed its summits and died!How they gathered to strife as the eagles,When the foeman had clambered the height!How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,They hunted him down for the fight.Hark! through the gorge of the valley,'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe;Our own quickly sounds for the rally,And we snatch down the rifle and go.As the hunter who hears of the panther,Each arms him and leaps to his steed,Rides forth through the desolate antre,With his knife and his rifle at need.From a thousand deep gorges they gather,From the cot lowly perched by the rill,The cabin half hid in the heather,'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still;Each lonely at first in his roaming,Till the vale to the sight opens fair,And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,When his bugle gives tongue to the air.Thus a thousand brave hunters assembleFor the hunt of the insolent foe,And soon shall his myrmidons tremble'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow.Down the lone heights now wind they together,As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,And now, as they group on the heather,The keen scout delivers his tale:"The British—the Tories are on us,And now is the moment to proveTo the women whose virtues have won us,That our virtues are worthy their love!They have swept the vast valleys below usWith fire, to the hills from the sea;And here would they seek to o'erthrow usIn a realm which our eagle makes free!"No war-council suffered to trifleWith the hours devote to the deed;Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,Swift followed the bound to the steed;And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,All panting with rage at the sight,Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,As he lay in his camp on the height.Grim dashed they away as they bounded,The hunters to hem in the prey,And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,Then the British rose fast to the fray;And never with arms of more vigorDid their bayonets press through the strife.Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,The sharpshooters dashed out a life!'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,As from danger to danger he flies.Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!An hour, and the battle is over;The eagles are rending the prey;The serpents seek flight into cover,But the terror still stands in the way:More dreadful the doom that on treasonAvenges the wrongs of the state;And the oak-tree for many a seasonBears fruit for the vultures of fate!William Gilmore Simms.

Hark! through the gorge of the valley,'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe;Our own quickly sounds for the rally,And we snatch down the rifle and go.As the hunter who hears of the panther,Each arms him and leaps to his steed,Rides forth through the desolate antre,With his knife and his rifle at need.

From a thousand deep gorges they gather,From the cot lowly perched by the rill,The cabin half hid in the heather,'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still;Each lonely at first in his roaming,Till the vale to the sight opens fair,And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

Thus a thousand brave hunters assembleFor the hunt of the insolent foe,And soon shall his myrmidons tremble'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow.Down the lone heights now wind they together,As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,And now, as they group on the heather,The keen scout delivers his tale:

"The British—the Tories are on us,And now is the moment to proveTo the women whose virtues have won us,That our virtues are worthy their love!They have swept the vast valleys below usWith fire, to the hills from the sea;And here would they seek to o'erthrow usIn a realm which our eagle makes free!"

No war-council suffered to trifleWith the hours devote to the deed;Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,Swift followed the bound to the steed;And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,All panting with rage at the sight,Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,As he lay in his camp on the height.

Grim dashed they away as they bounded,The hunters to hem in the prey,And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,Then the British rose fast to the fray;And never with arms of more vigorDid their bayonets press through the strife.Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,The sharpshooters dashed out a life!

'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,As from danger to danger he flies.Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!

An hour, and the battle is over;The eagles are rending the prey;The serpents seek flight into cover,But the terror still stands in the way:More dreadful the doom that on treasonAvenges the wrongs of the state;And the oak-tree for many a seasonBears fruit for the vultures of fate!

William Gilmore Simms.

EUTAW SPRINGS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS,UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA,WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781,AT EUTAW SPRINGS.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;How many heroes are no more!If in this wreck of ruin theyCan yet be thought to claim a tear,O smite thy gentle breast, and sayThe friends of freedom slumber here!Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,If goodness rules thy generous breast,Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!Stranger, their humble graves adorn;You too may fall and ask a tear;'Tis not the beauty of the mornThat proves the evening shall be clear—They saw their injured country's woe;The flaming town, the wasted field;Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;They took the spear,—but left the shield.Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,The Britons they compelled to fly;None distant viewed the fatal plain,None grieved, in such a cause, to die—But, like the Parthians famed of old,Who, flying, still their arrows threw,These routed Britons, full as bold,Retreated, and retreating slew.Now rest in peace, our patriot band;Though far from Nature's limits thrown,We trust they find a happier land,A brighter sunshine of their own.Philip Freneau.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin theyCan yet be thought to claim a tear,O smite thy gentle breast, and sayThe friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,If goodness rules thy generous breast,Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;You too may fall and ask a tear;'Tis not the beauty of the mornThat proves the evening shall be clear—

They saw their injured country's woe;The flaming town, the wasted field;Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;They took the spear,—but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,The Britons they compelled to fly;None distant viewed the fatal plain,None grieved, in such a cause, to die—

But, like the Parthians famed of old,Who, flying, still their arrows threw,These routed Britons, full as bold,Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;Though far from Nature's limits thrown,We trust they find a happier land,A brighter sunshine of their own.

Philip Freneau.

Cornwallis, meanwhile, had marched off toward Virginia, reaching Petersburg May 20, 1781, joining the British forces there and raising his army to five thousand men. He marched down the peninsula and established himself at Yorktown, adding the garrison of Portsmouth to his army, so that it numbered over seven thousand men.

THE DANCE

Cornwallis led a country dance,The like was never seen, sir,Much retrograde and much advance,And all with General Greene, sir.They rambled up and rambled down,Joined hands, then off they run, sir.Our General Greene to Charlestown,The earl to Wilmington, sir.Greene in the South then danced a set,And got a mighty name, sir,Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,But suffered in his fame, sir.Then down he figured to the shore,Most like a lordly dancer,And on his courtly honor sworeHe would no more advance, sir.Quoth he, my guards are weary grownWith footing country dances,They never at St. James's shone,At capers, kicks, or prances.Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,While sauntering on parade, sir,Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,Or at a masquerade, sir.Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,For stumps and briars meet, sir?Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,Or hardy veteran feet, sir?Now housed in York, he challenged all,At minuet or all 'amande,And lessons for a courtly ballHis guards by day and night conned.This challenge known, full soon there cameA set who had the bon ton,De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fameFut brillant pour un long tems.And Washington, Columbia's son,Whom easy nature taught, sir,That grace which can't by pains be won,Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.Now hand in hand they circle roundThis ever-dancing peer, sir;Their gentle movements soon confoundThe earl as they draw near, sir.His music soon forgets to play—His feet can move no more, sir,And all his bands now curse the dayThey jiggèd to our shore, sir.Now Tories all, what can ye say?Come—is not this a griper,That while your hopes are danced away,'Tis you must pay the piper?

Cornwallis led a country dance,The like was never seen, sir,Much retrograde and much advance,And all with General Greene, sir.

They rambled up and rambled down,Joined hands, then off they run, sir.Our General Greene to Charlestown,The earl to Wilmington, sir.

Greene in the South then danced a set,And got a mighty name, sir,Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,But suffered in his fame, sir.

Then down he figured to the shore,Most like a lordly dancer,And on his courtly honor sworeHe would no more advance, sir.

Quoth he, my guards are weary grownWith footing country dances,They never at St. James's shone,At capers, kicks, or prances.

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,While sauntering on parade, sir,Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,Or at a masquerade, sir.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,For stumps and briars meet, sir?Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York, he challenged all,At minuet or all 'amande,And lessons for a courtly ballHis guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there cameA set who had the bon ton,De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fameFut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son,Whom easy nature taught, sir,That grace which can't by pains be won,Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle roundThis ever-dancing peer, sir;Their gentle movements soon confoundThe earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play—His feet can move no more, sir,And all his bands now curse the dayThey jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say?Come—is not this a griper,That while your hopes are danced away,'Tis you must pay the piper?

Here an unexpected factor entered upon the scene. A magnificent French fleet under Count de Grasse had sailed for the Chesapeake, and Washington, with a daring worthy of Cæsar or Napoleon, decided to transfer his army from the Hudson to Virginia and overwhelm Cornwallis. On August 19 Washington's army crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry and started on its four hundred mile march. On September 18 it appeared before Yorktown. The French squadron was already on the scene, and Cornwallis was in the trap. There was no escape. On October 17 he hoisted the white flag, and two days later the British army, over seven thousand in number, laid down its arms.

CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER

[October 19, 1781]

When British troops first landed here,With Howe commander o'er them,They thought they'd make us quake for fear,And carry all before them;With thirty thousand men or more,And she without assistance,America must needs give o'er,And make no more resistance.But Washington, her glorious son,Of British hosts the terror,Soon, by repeated overthrows,Convinc'd them of their error;Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell,What gallant deeds he's done, sir,And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell,And thousands more have run, sir.Cornwallis, too, when he approach'dVirginia's old dominion,Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be;And so was North's opinion.From State to State with rapid stride,His troops had march'd before, sir,Till quite elate with martial pride,He thought all dangers o'er, sir.But our allies, to his surprise,The Chesapeake had enter'd;And now too late, he curs'd his fate,And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd,For Washington no sooner knewThe visit he had paid her,Than to his parent State he flew,To crush the bold invader.When he sat down before the town,His Lordship soon surrender'd;His martial pride he laid aside,And cas'd the British standard;Gods! how this stroke will North provoke,And all his thoughts confuse, sir!And how the Peers will hang their ears,When first they hear the news, sir.Be peace, the glorious end of war,By this event effected;And be the name of WashingtonTo latest times respected;Then let us toast America,And France in union with her;And may Great Britain rue the dayHer hostile bands came hither.

But Washington, her glorious son,Of British hosts the terror,Soon, by repeated overthrows,Convinc'd them of their error;Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell,What gallant deeds he's done, sir,And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell,And thousands more have run, sir.

Cornwallis, too, when he approach'dVirginia's old dominion,Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be;And so was North's opinion.From State to State with rapid stride,His troops had march'd before, sir,Till quite elate with martial pride,He thought all dangers o'er, sir.

But our allies, to his surprise,The Chesapeake had enter'd;And now too late, he curs'd his fate,And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd,For Washington no sooner knewThe visit he had paid her,Than to his parent State he flew,To crush the bold invader.

When he sat down before the town,His Lordship soon surrender'd;His martial pride he laid aside,And cas'd the British standard;Gods! how this stroke will North provoke,And all his thoughts confuse, sir!And how the Peers will hang their ears,When first they hear the news, sir.

Be peace, the glorious end of war,By this event effected;And be the name of WashingtonTo latest times respected;Then let us toast America,And France in union with her;And may Great Britain rue the dayHer hostile bands came hither.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS

Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell,'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell;'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar,A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er.A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord,Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword,Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies too,And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"A council to surrender this lord did then command;"What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend;Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's roar?De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81,Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington;Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms;Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd,Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind;Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due,O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see,And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty;For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent,That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew,Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue;May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore,And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord,Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword,Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies too,And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"

A council to surrender this lord did then command;"What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend;Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's roar?De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."

'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81,Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington;Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms;Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.

Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd,Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind;Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due,O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.

Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see,And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty;For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent,That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.

Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew,Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue;May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore,And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

"Early on a dark morning of the fourth week in October, an honest old German, slowly pacing the streets of Philadelphia on his night watch, began shouting, 'Basht dree o'glock, und Gornvallis ish dakendt!' and light sleepers sprang out of bed and threw up their windows." The whole country burst into jubilation at the news, and every village green was ablaze with bonfires.

NEWS FROM YORKTOWN

OCTOBER, 1781

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."How the voice rolled down the streetTill the silence rang and echoedWith the stir of hurrying feet!In the hush of the Quaker city,As the night drew on to morn,How it startled the troubled sleepers,Like the cry for a man-child born!"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."How they gathered, man and maid,Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock,There the trembling grandsire staid!From the stateliest homes of the city,From hovels that love might scorn,How they followed that ringing summons,Like the cry for a king's heir born!"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."I can see the quick lights flare,See the glad, wild face at the window,Half dumb in a breathless stare.In the pause of an hour portentous,In the gloom of a hope forlorn,How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens,Like the cry for a nation born!"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."How the message is sped and goneTo the farm and the town and the forestTill the world was one vast dawn!To distant and slave-sunk races,Bowed down in their chains that morn,How it swept on the winds of heaven,Like a cry for God's justice born!Lewis Worthington Smith.

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."How they gathered, man and maid,Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock,There the trembling grandsire staid!From the stateliest homes of the city,From hovels that love might scorn,How they followed that ringing summons,Like the cry for a king's heir born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."I can see the quick lights flare,See the glad, wild face at the window,Half dumb in a breathless stare.In the pause of an hour portentous,In the gloom of a hope forlorn,How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens,Like the cry for a nation born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."How the message is sped and goneTo the farm and the town and the forestTill the world was one vast dawn!To distant and slave-sunk races,Bowed down in their chains that morn,How it swept on the winds of heaven,Like a cry for God's justice born!

Lewis Worthington Smith.

AN ANCIENT PROPHECY

(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis)

When a certain great King, whose initial is G.,Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.But when a Petition he treads under feet,And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes tocage;When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.But when B. and C. with their armies are takenThis King will do well if he saves his own bacon:In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and twoA stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.In the year eighty-three, the affair will be overAnd he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;The face of the Lion will then become pale,He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail—O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,From theStarsand theStripesyou will mercy implore,And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.—Philip Freneau.

But when a Petition he treads under feet,And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes tocage;When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.

But when B. and C. with their armies are takenThis King will do well if he saves his own bacon:In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and twoA stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.

In the year eighty-three, the affair will be overAnd he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;The face of the Lion will then become pale,He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail—O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,From theStarsand theStripesyou will mercy implore,And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.—

Philip Freneau.

PEACE

The news of Cornwallis's surrender was received with consternation in Great Britain. The King declared that he would abdicate rather than acknowledge the independence of the United States, Lord North resigned, Lord Germaine was dismissed, and Sir Henry Clinton was superseded in command of the army by Sir Guy Carleton.

ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL

[May, 1782]

The dog that is beat has a right to complain—Sir Harry returns, a disconsolate swain,To the face of his master, the devil's anointed,To the country provided for thieves disappointed.Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall:He concluded the weakest must go to the wall.The more he was flatter'd, the bolder he grew:He quitted the old world to conquer the new.But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison(And they have been curious beyond all comparison),He now must go home, at the call of his king,To answer the charges that Arnold may bring.But what are the acts which this chief has achieved?If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved:And the more, as he fought for his national glory,Nor valued, a farthing, therightof the story.This famous great man, andtwo birds of his feather,In the Cerberus frigate came over together:But of all the bold chiefs that remeasure the trip,Not two have been known to return in one ship.Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport,They are very well pleased as long as unhurt;But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye,Ends the fray; and they go to their daddy and cry.Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many!You said all our paper was not worth a penny:('Tis nothing but rags, quoth honest Will Tryon:Are rags to discourage the sons of the lion?)But Clinton thought thus: "It is folly to fight,When things may by easier methods come right:There is such an art as counterfeit-ation,And I'll do my utmost to honor our nation:"I'll show this damn'd country that I can enslave her,And that by the help of a skilful engraver;And then let the rebels take care of their bacon;We'll play 'em a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken."But the project succeeded not quite to your liking;So you paid off your artist, and gave up bill-striking:But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on:You had surely been hang'd had you tried it in Britain.At the taking of Charlestown you cut a great figure,The terms you propounded were terms full of rigor,Yet could not foreseepoor Charley'sdisgrace,Nor how soon your own colors would go to the case.When the town had surrender'd, the more to disgrace ye(Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia),You broke all the terms yourself had extended,Because you supposed the rebellion was ended.Whoever the Tories mark'd out as a Whig,If gentle, or simple, or little, or big,No matter to you—to kill 'em and spite 'em,You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em.Then, thinking these rebels were snug and secure,You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour(The face of the latter no mask need be draw'd on,And to fish for the devil, my bait should be Rawdon).Returning to York with your ships and your plunder,And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under,The first thing that struck you as soon as you landedWas the fortress at West Point where Arnold commanded.Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver,We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river;The east and the south losing communication,The Yankees will die by the act of starvation."So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas),Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows;Your loss, I conceive, than your gain was far greater,You lost a good fellow and got a damn'd traitor.Now Carleton comes over to give you relief;A knight, like yourself, and commander-in-chief;But thechiefhe will get, you may tell the dear honey,Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money.Now, with "Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel;Away to your master, and honestly tell,That his arms and his artists can nothing avail;His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale.Advise him, at length to be just and sincere,Of which not a symptom as yet doth appear;As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy,Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie.Freeman's Journal, May 22, 1782.

The dog that is beat has a right to complain—Sir Harry returns, a disconsolate swain,To the face of his master, the devil's anointed,To the country provided for thieves disappointed.

Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall:He concluded the weakest must go to the wall.The more he was flatter'd, the bolder he grew:He quitted the old world to conquer the new.

But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison(And they have been curious beyond all comparison),He now must go home, at the call of his king,To answer the charges that Arnold may bring.

But what are the acts which this chief has achieved?If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved:And the more, as he fought for his national glory,Nor valued, a farthing, therightof the story.

This famous great man, andtwo birds of his feather,In the Cerberus frigate came over together:But of all the bold chiefs that remeasure the trip,Not two have been known to return in one ship.

Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport,They are very well pleased as long as unhurt;But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye,Ends the fray; and they go to their daddy and cry.

Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many!You said all our paper was not worth a penny:('Tis nothing but rags, quoth honest Will Tryon:Are rags to discourage the sons of the lion?)

But Clinton thought thus: "It is folly to fight,When things may by easier methods come right:There is such an art as counterfeit-ation,And I'll do my utmost to honor our nation:

"I'll show this damn'd country that I can enslave her,And that by the help of a skilful engraver;And then let the rebels take care of their bacon;We'll play 'em a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken."

But the project succeeded not quite to your liking;So you paid off your artist, and gave up bill-striking:But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on:You had surely been hang'd had you tried it in Britain.

At the taking of Charlestown you cut a great figure,The terms you propounded were terms full of rigor,Yet could not foreseepoor Charley'sdisgrace,Nor how soon your own colors would go to the case.

When the town had surrender'd, the more to disgrace ye(Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia),You broke all the terms yourself had extended,Because you supposed the rebellion was ended.

Whoever the Tories mark'd out as a Whig,If gentle, or simple, or little, or big,No matter to you—to kill 'em and spite 'em,You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em.

Then, thinking these rebels were snug and secure,You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour(The face of the latter no mask need be draw'd on,And to fish for the devil, my bait should be Rawdon).

Returning to York with your ships and your plunder,And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under,The first thing that struck you as soon as you landedWas the fortress at West Point where Arnold commanded.

Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver,We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river;The east and the south losing communication,The Yankees will die by the act of starvation."

So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas),Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows;Your loss, I conceive, than your gain was far greater,You lost a good fellow and got a damn'd traitor.

Now Carleton comes over to give you relief;A knight, like yourself, and commander-in-chief;But thechiefhe will get, you may tell the dear honey,Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money.

Now, with "Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel;Away to your master, and honestly tell,That his arms and his artists can nothing avail;His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale.

Advise him, at length to be just and sincere,Of which not a symptom as yet doth appear;As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy,Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie.

Freeman's Journal, May 22, 1782.

George III also declared that he would retain the cities of New York and Charleston at all hazards, but it was soon out of his power to retain Charleston, at least. General Leslie, in command there, found himself in dire straits for supplies, and on December 14, 1782, evacuated the city and sailed away for Halifax.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE BRITISH FROM CHARLESTON

[December 14, 1782]

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