The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of savage revelers, there hung
A dozen scalps of Saxon hair
Bestained with deadly clots of red,
And one with tresses flaxen-fair,
A trophy torn from woman's head.

The sight was pitiful; he thought
Of happy hamlets whelmed in flame,
Of gladsome hearts to anguish brought,
Of cord and torture, death and shame;
Yea, thought of all the griefs and ghosts
That filled those yelping mouths with boasts.
One thought of sorrow; then another
Of wrath; he swore to stop the breath
Of every red-skin man and brother
Who vaunted forth that song of death.

But he was one, and they were twenty;
How could he strive at even betting?
His pistol-balls were far from plenty,
His sabre dull with rust of wetting.
He saw that only Yankee cunning
Could beat the herd of Bashan cattle,
And strategy must set them running
Before he ventured closer battle.
So, while the mighty river thundered,
And bragging Mingos yelled like lawyers,
Our hero called to mind a hundred
Bushfighting tricks of Indian warriors.