THE AFFAIR OF CHERRY VALLEY.

JOSEPH BRANT.The massacre at Cherry Valley, New York, was notably cruel and bloody. In November, 1778, Walter Butler, with two hundred loyalists, and Joseph Brant, with five hundred Indians, swept down on the place, and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter. The very loyalists among the inhabitants were not spared. John Wells was well affected to the crown, yet he and his family, with the exception of his son John, who happened to be in Schenectady, were killed. Jane Wells was very much esteemed for her kindness and other good qualities. The elder Wells was a particular friend of Colonel John Butler, Walter’s father, who said, when he heard of his death, “I would have gone miles on my hands and knees to have saved that family, and why my son did not do it God only knows.” One loyalist, Peter Smith, who had formerly been a servant in the family, tried to save Miss Jenny, but the Indian who had seized her struck her on the head with his tomahawk and killed her. One man by the name of Mitchell was at a distance, saw the savages approaching, and finding that he could not rejoin his family, escaped into the woods. On his return he found his house burning, and near it lay the bodies of his wife and four children. One of these, a little girl, was still living, when he saw a party approach. He dropped the child, and secreted himself behind a tree. One of the new-comers saw the child to be alive yet, and stooping, brained her with a hatchet. The wretch was not an Indian, but a white loyalist savage named Newbery, who was afterwards hanged as a spy by General James Clinton. Brant saved a number of prisoners, and would have spared the women and children, but Walter Butler denied all appeals for mercy.Butler’s time was to come. On the 22d of August, 1781, Colonel Willet attacked a force of five hundred loyalists and Indians at Johnstown, and defeated them. They were commanded by Major Ross and Walter Butler. The remnant of the enemy retreated all that night, and could not be overtaken. It was during that retreat that Butler was killed in the manner related in the ballad. Skenando, the Oneida chief, who is supposed to have been his slayer, was about seventy-four years old at the time. He lived many years after, dying at the age of one hundred and ten, on March 19, 1816. His burial was attended by a large number of citizens. A short time before his death he said to a visitor, who made some inquiries about his age, “I am an old hemlock. The winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my top. The generation to which I belonged has gone and left me. Pray to my Jesus that I may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die.”

JOSEPH BRANT.

The massacre at Cherry Valley, New York, was notably cruel and bloody. In November, 1778, Walter Butler, with two hundred loyalists, and Joseph Brant, with five hundred Indians, swept down on the place, and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter. The very loyalists among the inhabitants were not spared. John Wells was well affected to the crown, yet he and his family, with the exception of his son John, who happened to be in Schenectady, were killed. Jane Wells was very much esteemed for her kindness and other good qualities. The elder Wells was a particular friend of Colonel John Butler, Walter’s father, who said, when he heard of his death, “I would have gone miles on my hands and knees to have saved that family, and why my son did not do it God only knows.” One loyalist, Peter Smith, who had formerly been a servant in the family, tried to save Miss Jenny, but the Indian who had seized her struck her on the head with his tomahawk and killed her. One man by the name of Mitchell was at a distance, saw the savages approaching, and finding that he could not rejoin his family, escaped into the woods. On his return he found his house burning, and near it lay the bodies of his wife and four children. One of these, a little girl, was still living, when he saw a party approach. He dropped the child, and secreted himself behind a tree. One of the new-comers saw the child to be alive yet, and stooping, brained her with a hatchet. The wretch was not an Indian, but a white loyalist savage named Newbery, who was afterwards hanged as a spy by General James Clinton. Brant saved a number of prisoners, and would have spared the women and children, but Walter Butler denied all appeals for mercy.

Butler’s time was to come. On the 22d of August, 1781, Colonel Willet attacked a force of five hundred loyalists and Indians at Johnstown, and defeated them. They were commanded by Major Ross and Walter Butler. The remnant of the enemy retreated all that night, and could not be overtaken. It was during that retreat that Butler was killed in the manner related in the ballad. Skenando, the Oneida chief, who is supposed to have been his slayer, was about seventy-four years old at the time. He lived many years after, dying at the age of one hundred and ten, on March 19, 1816. His burial was attended by a large number of citizens. A short time before his death he said to a visitor, who made some inquiries about his age, “I am an old hemlock. The winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my top. The generation to which I belonged has gone and left me. Pray to my Jesus that I may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die.”

DISTANT VIEW OF CHERRY VALLEY.

Overhead the sky of morningGives of goodly weather sign;From the milking to the meadowsSlowly go the lowing kine.Fall in sparks of fire the dew-dropsFrom the overburdened leaves;Flit from bough to bough the peewees;Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves.Mists that recent wrapped the valleyNow are sweeping o’er the hills;And the broad red sun is castingGold upon the lakes and rills.Deep and brown and sombre shadowsCreep the forest trees between;Here and there the shades of crimsonSpeck the liquidambars’ green.Lo! a horseman swiftly risingFrom between the river’s banks;Dust is on the rider’s garments,Blood upon his horse’s flanks.At the portal of the tavernHard he draws the bridle-rein,For a moment, feet in stirrup,One refreshing draught to drain.What can make the village dwellers,In a hushed and breathless group,Gather round that jaded horsemanBy the village-tavern stoop?To him come the anxious mothers,Bearing babes upon their arms;Close behind them crowd the maidens,Yet unscathed by love’s alarms.Near him gather stalwart farmers,Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned;And the curious village children,Play suspending, stand around.Breathless all, until the horseman,Mug in hand, has told his tale;Then around there spreads a murmurLike the warning of the gale.Now it lulls and now it rises,Like the patter of the rain—“Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance!Walter Butler has been slain!”

Overhead the sky of morningGives of goodly weather sign;From the milking to the meadowsSlowly go the lowing kine.

Overhead the sky of morning

Gives of goodly weather sign;

From the milking to the meadows

Slowly go the lowing kine.

Fall in sparks of fire the dew-dropsFrom the overburdened leaves;Flit from bough to bough the peewees;Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves.

Fall in sparks of fire the dew-drops

From the overburdened leaves;

Flit from bough to bough the peewees;

Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves.

Mists that recent wrapped the valleyNow are sweeping o’er the hills;And the broad red sun is castingGold upon the lakes and rills.

Mists that recent wrapped the valley

Now are sweeping o’er the hills;

And the broad red sun is casting

Gold upon the lakes and rills.

Deep and brown and sombre shadowsCreep the forest trees between;Here and there the shades of crimsonSpeck the liquidambars’ green.

Deep and brown and sombre shadows

Creep the forest trees between;

Here and there the shades of crimson

Speck the liquidambars’ green.

Lo! a horseman swiftly risingFrom between the river’s banks;Dust is on the rider’s garments,Blood upon his horse’s flanks.

Lo! a horseman swiftly rising

From between the river’s banks;

Dust is on the rider’s garments,

Blood upon his horse’s flanks.

At the portal of the tavernHard he draws the bridle-rein,For a moment, feet in stirrup,One refreshing draught to drain.

At the portal of the tavern

Hard he draws the bridle-rein,

For a moment, feet in stirrup,

One refreshing draught to drain.

What can make the village dwellers,In a hushed and breathless group,Gather round that jaded horsemanBy the village-tavern stoop?

What can make the village dwellers,

In a hushed and breathless group,

Gather round that jaded horseman

By the village-tavern stoop?

To him come the anxious mothers,Bearing babes upon their arms;Close behind them crowd the maidens,Yet unscathed by love’s alarms.

To him come the anxious mothers,

Bearing babes upon their arms;

Close behind them crowd the maidens,

Yet unscathed by love’s alarms.

Near him gather stalwart farmers,Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned;And the curious village children,Play suspending, stand around.

Near him gather stalwart farmers,

Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned;

And the curious village children,

Play suspending, stand around.

Breathless all, until the horseman,Mug in hand, has told his tale;Then around there spreads a murmurLike the warning of the gale.

Breathless all, until the horseman,

Mug in hand, has told his tale;

Then around there spreads a murmur

Like the warning of the gale.

Now it lulls and now it rises,Like the patter of the rain—“Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance!Walter Butler has been slain!”

Now it lulls and now it rises,

Like the patter of the rain—

“Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance!

Walter Butler has been slain!”

II.

Never tongue may tell the horrorOf that dark November day,When through startled Cherry ValleyWalter Butler took his way—Walter Butler and his Tories,With the savage Brant in train,Marking every rod of progressBy the bodies of the slain.Walter Butler! cruel panther,Lapping tongue in human gore;Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk,Had of truth and pity more.His the will to save the helplessFrom the tomahawk and ball,Had not you with rage forbade him,Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!”Even boyhood’s old companions,Comrades of your later days,Friends who, seeing not your vices,Gave your scanty virtues praise—None of these could gain your mercyOn that long-remembered day;For the stranger, friend or foeman,Came one doom relentless—“Slay!”Swiftly at your word the hatchetCrashed into the quivering brain,And the swarthy fiends in furyTore the scalp-skins from the slain.Gray-haired elders, whom your fatherKnew as friends in days of yore,You had joy to see their corsesWelter in their oozing gore.Mothers lying mangled, dying,In their throes made deeper moansAs they saw the skulls of infantsShattered on the ruthless stones.These, and shrieks of fleeing maidens,Speechless children’s pleading tears,And the yelling of the savage,Made sweet music to your ears.Bloody Walter Butler! owningBrain of fire and heart of stone,Twenty deaths, could you endure them,Would not for these deeds atone.Nevermore may come your victimsTo the pleasant earth again—Never hear the blessed tidings—“Walter Butler has been slain!”

Never tongue may tell the horrorOf that dark November day,When through startled Cherry ValleyWalter Butler took his way—

Never tongue may tell the horror

Of that dark November day,

When through startled Cherry Valley

Walter Butler took his way—

Walter Butler and his Tories,With the savage Brant in train,Marking every rod of progressBy the bodies of the slain.

Walter Butler and his Tories,

With the savage Brant in train,

Marking every rod of progress

By the bodies of the slain.

Walter Butler! cruel panther,Lapping tongue in human gore;Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk,Had of truth and pity more.

Walter Butler! cruel panther,

Lapping tongue in human gore;

Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk,

Had of truth and pity more.

His the will to save the helplessFrom the tomahawk and ball,Had not you with rage forbade him,Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!”

His the will to save the helpless

From the tomahawk and ball,

Had not you with rage forbade him,

Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!”

Even boyhood’s old companions,Comrades of your later days,Friends who, seeing not your vices,Gave your scanty virtues praise—

Even boyhood’s old companions,

Comrades of your later days,

Friends who, seeing not your vices,

Gave your scanty virtues praise—

None of these could gain your mercyOn that long-remembered day;For the stranger, friend or foeman,Came one doom relentless—“Slay!”

None of these could gain your mercy

On that long-remembered day;

For the stranger, friend or foeman,

Came one doom relentless—“Slay!”

Swiftly at your word the hatchetCrashed into the quivering brain,And the swarthy fiends in furyTore the scalp-skins from the slain.

Swiftly at your word the hatchet

Crashed into the quivering brain,

And the swarthy fiends in fury

Tore the scalp-skins from the slain.

Gray-haired elders, whom your fatherKnew as friends in days of yore,You had joy to see their corsesWelter in their oozing gore.

Gray-haired elders, whom your father

Knew as friends in days of yore,

You had joy to see their corses

Welter in their oozing gore.

Mothers lying mangled, dying,In their throes made deeper moansAs they saw the skulls of infantsShattered on the ruthless stones.

Mothers lying mangled, dying,

In their throes made deeper moans

As they saw the skulls of infants

Shattered on the ruthless stones.

These, and shrieks of fleeing maidens,Speechless children’s pleading tears,And the yelling of the savage,Made sweet music to your ears.

These, and shrieks of fleeing maidens,

Speechless children’s pleading tears,

And the yelling of the savage,

Made sweet music to your ears.

Bloody Walter Butler! owningBrain of fire and heart of stone,Twenty deaths, could you endure them,Would not for these deeds atone.

Bloody Walter Butler! owning

Brain of fire and heart of stone,

Twenty deaths, could you endure them,

Would not for these deeds atone.

Nevermore may come your victimsTo the pleasant earth again—Never hear the blessed tidings—“Walter Butler has been slain!”

Nevermore may come your victims

To the pleasant earth again—

Never hear the blessed tidings—

“Walter Butler has been slain!”

III.

When the savage had departed,Careless of the woe he caused,Then, amid the smouldering ruins,An Oneida came and paused.He was tall and gaunt and aged,Crowned his head with films of snow;For the frosts of seventy wintersThus had honored Skenando.Gazed he on the work of evil,Which around its traces spread,On the blood which stained the herbage,On the pale and mangled dead.“I have been,” so spake the chieftain,“Forty years the white man’s friend;So have been to Walter Butler—Would have proved so to the end.“Cruel son of lying father,Faithless, too, as this may show,You shall rue the dreadful doingWhich creates in me a foe.“Here are friends—I knew and loved them,Proved them often in my need.Great Monedo’s curse be on you,Walter Butler, for this deed.“Here, by all his bitter sorrow,By his scant and whitened hairs,By the spirits of the fallen,Thus the old Oneida swears:“He will follow in your pathway,He will hang upon your track,Through the hurry of the foray,Through the battle’s awful rack,“Till at length his keen-edged hatchet,Driven to your coward brain,With its crashing voice shall utter,‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

When the savage had departed,Careless of the woe he caused,Then, amid the smouldering ruins,An Oneida came and paused.

When the savage had departed,

Careless of the woe he caused,

Then, amid the smouldering ruins,

An Oneida came and paused.

He was tall and gaunt and aged,Crowned his head with films of snow;For the frosts of seventy wintersThus had honored Skenando.

He was tall and gaunt and aged,

Crowned his head with films of snow;

For the frosts of seventy winters

Thus had honored Skenando.

Gazed he on the work of evil,Which around its traces spread,On the blood which stained the herbage,On the pale and mangled dead.

Gazed he on the work of evil,

Which around its traces spread,

On the blood which stained the herbage,

On the pale and mangled dead.

“I have been,” so spake the chieftain,“Forty years the white man’s friend;So have been to Walter Butler—Would have proved so to the end.

“I have been,” so spake the chieftain,

“Forty years the white man’s friend;

So have been to Walter Butler—

Would have proved so to the end.

“Cruel son of lying father,Faithless, too, as this may show,You shall rue the dreadful doingWhich creates in me a foe.

“Cruel son of lying father,

Faithless, too, as this may show,

You shall rue the dreadful doing

Which creates in me a foe.

“Here are friends—I knew and loved them,Proved them often in my need.Great Monedo’s curse be on you,Walter Butler, for this deed.

“Here are friends—I knew and loved them,

Proved them often in my need.

Great Monedo’s curse be on you,

Walter Butler, for this deed.

“Here, by all his bitter sorrow,By his scant and whitened hairs,By the spirits of the fallen,Thus the old Oneida swears:

“Here, by all his bitter sorrow,

By his scant and whitened hairs,

By the spirits of the fallen,

Thus the old Oneida swears:

“He will follow in your pathway,He will hang upon your track,Through the hurry of the foray,Through the battle’s awful rack,

“He will follow in your pathway,

He will hang upon your track,

Through the hurry of the foray,

Through the battle’s awful rack,

“Till at length his keen-edged hatchet,Driven to your coward brain,With its crashing voice shall utter,‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

“Till at length his keen-edged hatchet,

Driven to your coward brain,

With its crashing voice shall utter,

‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

IV.

In the waste of Cherry ValleyDesolation long was seen,Seated on the heaps of ashesWhere the home of man had been.Desolation there was sitting,Brooding on the fearful past,Crouching in the murky shadowsOf her sullen pinions vast.There, amid the thorny briers,Mingled with the earth and stones,Hidden by the noxious herbage,Were the weather-whitened bones.On the branches of the maplesSat the houseless cocks, and crowed;In the forest’s dark recessesStarveling watch-dogs made abode.Through the copse-wood, snorting, scamperedHerds of wild and savage swine;And with yellow deer there wanderedWhat survived among the kine.In the fenceless fields the pantherCrouched to spring upon his prey;And the rattlesnake lay baskingCareless in the public way.Where had stood the barn and stable,And the garden with its bees;Where the house, with peakèd gable,Peeped through groves of locust-trees;Where the children, newly risen,Peered at sunrise through the pane,But through which the murdered childrenNevermore may peer again;Where the housewife in the morning,Pail in hand, the fountain near,Stopped to gossip with her neighbors,And the village news to hear;Where the farmers in the porchesSat at closing of the day,Smoking pipes whose odors mingledWith the fragrance of the hay;Where at eve the cows were lowingAnswer to the milkmaid’s cry;And, with hens about him, proudlySultan Spurs came strutting by;Where the horses, in the pasture,On the fence’s topmost rail,Crossed their necks and loudly whinnied,Some tired traveller’s horse to hail;Where the rooting swine at footstepsRaised their heads beneath the trees,And the watch-dog bayed defianceTo the murmur of the breeze—Clouds that overhung the valleyWould not melt in gentle rain;They were waiting for the tidings—“Walter Butler has been slain!”

In the waste of Cherry ValleyDesolation long was seen,Seated on the heaps of ashesWhere the home of man had been.

In the waste of Cherry Valley

Desolation long was seen,

Seated on the heaps of ashes

Where the home of man had been.

Desolation there was sitting,Brooding on the fearful past,Crouching in the murky shadowsOf her sullen pinions vast.

Desolation there was sitting,

Brooding on the fearful past,

Crouching in the murky shadows

Of her sullen pinions vast.

There, amid the thorny briers,Mingled with the earth and stones,Hidden by the noxious herbage,Were the weather-whitened bones.

There, amid the thorny briers,

Mingled with the earth and stones,

Hidden by the noxious herbage,

Were the weather-whitened bones.

On the branches of the maplesSat the houseless cocks, and crowed;In the forest’s dark recessesStarveling watch-dogs made abode.

On the branches of the maples

Sat the houseless cocks, and crowed;

In the forest’s dark recesses

Starveling watch-dogs made abode.

Through the copse-wood, snorting, scamperedHerds of wild and savage swine;And with yellow deer there wanderedWhat survived among the kine.

Through the copse-wood, snorting, scampered

Herds of wild and savage swine;

And with yellow deer there wandered

What survived among the kine.

In the fenceless fields the pantherCrouched to spring upon his prey;And the rattlesnake lay baskingCareless in the public way.

In the fenceless fields the panther

Crouched to spring upon his prey;

And the rattlesnake lay basking

Careless in the public way.

Where had stood the barn and stable,And the garden with its bees;Where the house, with peakèd gable,Peeped through groves of locust-trees;

Where had stood the barn and stable,

And the garden with its bees;

Where the house, with peakèd gable,

Peeped through groves of locust-trees;

Where the children, newly risen,Peered at sunrise through the pane,But through which the murdered childrenNevermore may peer again;

Where the children, newly risen,

Peered at sunrise through the pane,

But through which the murdered children

Nevermore may peer again;

Where the housewife in the morning,Pail in hand, the fountain near,Stopped to gossip with her neighbors,And the village news to hear;

Where the housewife in the morning,

Pail in hand, the fountain near,

Stopped to gossip with her neighbors,

And the village news to hear;

Where the farmers in the porchesSat at closing of the day,Smoking pipes whose odors mingledWith the fragrance of the hay;

Where the farmers in the porches

Sat at closing of the day,

Smoking pipes whose odors mingled

With the fragrance of the hay;

Where at eve the cows were lowingAnswer to the milkmaid’s cry;And, with hens about him, proudlySultan Spurs came strutting by;

Where at eve the cows were lowing

Answer to the milkmaid’s cry;

And, with hens about him, proudly

Sultan Spurs came strutting by;

Where the horses, in the pasture,On the fence’s topmost rail,Crossed their necks and loudly whinnied,Some tired traveller’s horse to hail;

Where the horses, in the pasture,

On the fence’s topmost rail,

Crossed their necks and loudly whinnied,

Some tired traveller’s horse to hail;

Where the rooting swine at footstepsRaised their heads beneath the trees,And the watch-dog bayed defianceTo the murmur of the breeze—

Where the rooting swine at footsteps

Raised their heads beneath the trees,

And the watch-dog bayed defiance

To the murmur of the breeze—

Clouds that overhung the valleyWould not melt in gentle rain;They were waiting for the tidings—“Walter Butler has been slain!”

Clouds that overhung the valley

Would not melt in gentle rain;

They were waiting for the tidings—

“Walter Butler has been slain!”

Where the Canada so swiftlyThrough the mountain gorges flows,Walter Butler found the mercyHe had dealt to hapless foes.He had fought that day with Willet,And the battle had been lost,For our men the past remembered,To the ruthless Tories’ cost.No one there would seek for quarter,No one mercy would bestow;From the wrath that swept around them,Flight alone could save the foe.Butler, baffled, fled the combatOn his charger tried and good,Through the glen and o’er the valley,Through the gap within the wood.Rode he steadily and swiftly,While a swart and angry packOf the hound-like, wild OneidasYelped in anger on his track.On the Canada was rushing,Tempest-swollen, from the hills,Maddened with the furious urgingOf a hundred surging rills.But he heeded not its raging;At the danger fear was lost.In he spurred his panting charger,And the foaming river crossed.On its bank a moment halting,To the foes upon his trackWords and motions of defianceButler hurled, exulting, back.On his hot and spent pursuersThus his words of scorning fell:“He who rides with Walter ButlerSits a steed that carries well.“In the battle and the forayHuman blood shall fall like rain,Ere you carry round the tidings—‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

Where the Canada so swiftlyThrough the mountain gorges flows,Walter Butler found the mercyHe had dealt to hapless foes.

Where the Canada so swiftly

Through the mountain gorges flows,

Walter Butler found the mercy

He had dealt to hapless foes.

He had fought that day with Willet,And the battle had been lost,For our men the past remembered,To the ruthless Tories’ cost.

He had fought that day with Willet,

And the battle had been lost,

For our men the past remembered,

To the ruthless Tories’ cost.

No one there would seek for quarter,No one mercy would bestow;From the wrath that swept around them,Flight alone could save the foe.

No one there would seek for quarter,

No one mercy would bestow;

From the wrath that swept around them,

Flight alone could save the foe.

Butler, baffled, fled the combatOn his charger tried and good,Through the glen and o’er the valley,Through the gap within the wood.

Butler, baffled, fled the combat

On his charger tried and good,

Through the glen and o’er the valley,

Through the gap within the wood.

Rode he steadily and swiftly,While a swart and angry packOf the hound-like, wild OneidasYelped in anger on his track.

Rode he steadily and swiftly,

While a swart and angry pack

Of the hound-like, wild Oneidas

Yelped in anger on his track.

On the Canada was rushing,Tempest-swollen, from the hills,Maddened with the furious urgingOf a hundred surging rills.

On the Canada was rushing,

Tempest-swollen, from the hills,

Maddened with the furious urging

Of a hundred surging rills.

But he heeded not its raging;At the danger fear was lost.In he spurred his panting charger,And the foaming river crossed.

But he heeded not its raging;

At the danger fear was lost.

In he spurred his panting charger,

And the foaming river crossed.

On its bank a moment halting,To the foes upon his trackWords and motions of defianceButler hurled, exulting, back.

On its bank a moment halting,

To the foes upon his track

Words and motions of defiance

Butler hurled, exulting, back.

On his hot and spent pursuersThus his words of scorning fell:“He who rides with Walter ButlerSits a steed that carries well.

On his hot and spent pursuers

Thus his words of scorning fell:

“He who rides with Walter Butler

Sits a steed that carries well.

“In the battle and the forayHuman blood shall fall like rain,Ere you carry round the tidings—‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

“In the battle and the foray

Human blood shall fall like rain,

Ere you carry round the tidings—

‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”

VI.

As he waved his hand in mockingCame the whizzing of the ball;Loudly shouted the OneidasAs they saw the braggart fall.Then the white-haired chief who led themFlung his powder-horn aside,And his rifle dropped, preparingFor a leap within the tide.“Skenando!” exclaimed a comrade,“Stay! the stream runs fierce and wild;And your age will make you weakerIn its current than a child.“For the youngest there is dangerEre he’d reach the farther shore,From the raging of the waters,And the rocks o’er which they pour.”“Stay me not!” he answered, sternly;“Vengeance to the flood impels;Hear you not the dying moaningOf the murdered Jenny Wells?”Plunging in the yellow torrentWith his tomahawk in hand,Swam the chief of the Oneidas,Struggling till he reached the land—Till upon the green bank’s summit,Close beside the shaded, wood,O’er the sorely wounded ButlerWith a purpose fierce he stood.Said the pallid, craven butcher,“Let my ransom save my head;I can give you gold if living,I am profitless if dead!”Skenando replied, “With feverI in Cherry Valley lay,Where a white man nursed and healed me,Clothed and sent me on my way.“That same white man had a daughter;She with you in childhood played;Yet one day, when leaves had fallen,By your orders died the maid.“The Oneida, sworn to vengeance,Stands prepared to keep his vow;Think of Jenny Wells and tremble!Ah! you ask no mercy now.“Wretch! remember Cherry Valley!”Sank the Tory with a groan,And the fierce and vengeful savageDrove his hatchet through the bone.Back returned the swart OneidasEre the setting of the sun;And the scalp of Walter ButlerDangled from the belt of one.To the stout, victorious soldiersWho so well that day had fought,And were now at ease reposing,Pleasant was the news they brought.When was told around the camp-fireHow the hatchet clave the brain,Oh, how joyous was the shouting—“Walter Butler has been slain.”

As he waved his hand in mockingCame the whizzing of the ball;Loudly shouted the OneidasAs they saw the braggart fall.

As he waved his hand in mocking

Came the whizzing of the ball;

Loudly shouted the Oneidas

As they saw the braggart fall.

Then the white-haired chief who led themFlung his powder-horn aside,And his rifle dropped, preparingFor a leap within the tide.

Then the white-haired chief who led them

Flung his powder-horn aside,

And his rifle dropped, preparing

For a leap within the tide.

“Skenando!” exclaimed a comrade,“Stay! the stream runs fierce and wild;And your age will make you weakerIn its current than a child.

“Skenando!” exclaimed a comrade,

“Stay! the stream runs fierce and wild;

And your age will make you weaker

In its current than a child.

“For the youngest there is dangerEre he’d reach the farther shore,From the raging of the waters,And the rocks o’er which they pour.”

“For the youngest there is danger

Ere he’d reach the farther shore,

From the raging of the waters,

And the rocks o’er which they pour.”

“Stay me not!” he answered, sternly;“Vengeance to the flood impels;Hear you not the dying moaningOf the murdered Jenny Wells?”

“Stay me not!” he answered, sternly;

“Vengeance to the flood impels;

Hear you not the dying moaning

Of the murdered Jenny Wells?”

Plunging in the yellow torrentWith his tomahawk in hand,Swam the chief of the Oneidas,Struggling till he reached the land—

Plunging in the yellow torrent

With his tomahawk in hand,

Swam the chief of the Oneidas,

Struggling till he reached the land—

Till upon the green bank’s summit,Close beside the shaded, wood,O’er the sorely wounded ButlerWith a purpose fierce he stood.

Till upon the green bank’s summit,

Close beside the shaded, wood,

O’er the sorely wounded Butler

With a purpose fierce he stood.

Said the pallid, craven butcher,“Let my ransom save my head;I can give you gold if living,I am profitless if dead!”

Said the pallid, craven butcher,

“Let my ransom save my head;

I can give you gold if living,

I am profitless if dead!”

Skenando replied, “With feverI in Cherry Valley lay,Where a white man nursed and healed me,Clothed and sent me on my way.

Skenando replied, “With fever

I in Cherry Valley lay,

Where a white man nursed and healed me,

Clothed and sent me on my way.

“That same white man had a daughter;She with you in childhood played;Yet one day, when leaves had fallen,By your orders died the maid.

“That same white man had a daughter;

She with you in childhood played;

Yet one day, when leaves had fallen,

By your orders died the maid.

“The Oneida, sworn to vengeance,Stands prepared to keep his vow;Think of Jenny Wells and tremble!Ah! you ask no mercy now.

“The Oneida, sworn to vengeance,

Stands prepared to keep his vow;

Think of Jenny Wells and tremble!

Ah! you ask no mercy now.

“Wretch! remember Cherry Valley!”Sank the Tory with a groan,And the fierce and vengeful savageDrove his hatchet through the bone.

“Wretch! remember Cherry Valley!”

Sank the Tory with a groan,

And the fierce and vengeful savage

Drove his hatchet through the bone.

Back returned the swart OneidasEre the setting of the sun;And the scalp of Walter ButlerDangled from the belt of one.

Back returned the swart Oneidas

Ere the setting of the sun;

And the scalp of Walter Butler

Dangled from the belt of one.

To the stout, victorious soldiersWho so well that day had fought,And were now at ease reposing,Pleasant was the news they brought.

To the stout, victorious soldiers

Who so well that day had fought,

And were now at ease reposing,

Pleasant was the news they brought.

When was told around the camp-fireHow the hatchet clave the brain,Oh, how joyous was the shouting—“Walter Butler has been slain.”

When was told around the camp-fire

How the hatchet clave the brain,

Oh, how joyous was the shouting—

“Walter Butler has been slain.”

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