 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
322
KING'S MOUNTAIN.—A BALLAD.
I.
Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain,And it speaks to our heart in its pride,
As it tells of the bearing of heroes
Who compassed its summit and died!
How they gathered to the strife as the eagles,
When the foeman had clamber'd the height!
How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,
They hunted him down for the fight!
Hurrah!
II.
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.
Hurrah!
III.
From a thousand deep gorges they gather—From the cot lowly perch'd by the rill,
The cabin half hid in the heather,
'Neath the crag where the eagle keeps still.
Each lonely at first in his roaming,
Till the vale on the sight opens fair,
And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,
When his bugle gives tongue to the air.
Hurrah!
323
IV.
Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble,For 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.
Hurrah!
V.
“The British—the Tories are on us,And now is the moment to prove,
To the women whose virtues have won us,
That our virtues are worthy their love!
They have swept the vast valleys below us,
With fire, to the hills from the sea;
And here would they seek to o'erthrow us,
In a realm which our eagle makes free!
Hurrah!”
VI.
No war counsel suffer'd to trifleWith the hours devote to the deed,
Swift follow'd the grasp of the rifle,
Swift follow'd the bound to the steed;
And soon to the eyes of our yeomen,
All panting with rage at the sight,
Gleam'd the long wavy tents of the foeman,
As he lay in his camp on the height.
Hurrah!
324
VII.
Grim dash'd 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 vigor
Did their bayonets press through the strife,
Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,
The sharp-shooters dashed out a life.
Hurrah!
VIII.
'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!
Hurrah!
IX.
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 treason
Avenges the wrongs of the state;
And the oak tree for many a season
Bears its fruit for the vultures of Fate!
Hurrah!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |