They've turned! they've fought! Good-by, King George,
Despite your hireling band!
Our 'prentice lads have borne a brunt;
Our farmer boys will stand!

Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,
The fight's as good as won;
We've made them yield in open field!
We've seen the Redcoats run!

Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn
With Knowlton at their head
To rout the British pickets out
And 'change a pound o' lead.

We gave them eight brisk rounds apiece
And, fighting, hurried back
For, eighteenscore, the Light-armed Corps
Were hot upon our track.

Along the vale of Bloomingdale
They pressed our scant array;
They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag
Across the Hollow Way.

Their flankers hooted, “Hark, away!”
Their buglers, from the wall,
In boastful vaunt and bitter taunt
Brayed forth the hunting-call.

Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame
In every sunburnt face;
And every soul was hot as coal
To cleanse the foul disgrace;

Ay, some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights
And fled at Turtle Bay
Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path
And clamored for the fray.

Our general came spurring!
(There rolled a signal drum);
His eye was bright, he reared his height,
He knew the time had come.

He gave the word to Knowlton
That led our own command,
The pick of green Connecticut—
And Leitch with Weedon's band

Of tall Virginia riflemen,
Free hunters of the deer,
To round the braggart Briton's flank
And take him in the rear.

We left the dell, we scaled the fell,
And up the crest we sprang,
When, crackling sharp along the scarp,
A deadly volley rang,

And down went Leitch of Weedon's band
Deep hurt, but dauntless still;
And down went Knowlton, sword in hand—
The sword of Bunker Hill.

I raised his head. But this he said,
Death-wounded as he lay.
“Lead on the fight! My hurt is light
If Freedom win the day!”

In open rank we struck their flank,
And oh! the fight was hot!
Up came the Hessian Yägers,
Up came the kilted Scot,

Up came the men of Linsingen,
Von Donop's Grenadiers!
But swift we sped the whistling lead
About the Dutchmen's ears.

They buckled front to Varnum's brunt,
We crumpled up their right,
And, driving back the crimson wrack,
We swept along the height.

The helmet of the Hessian
Is tumbled in the wheat!
The tartan of the Highlander
Shall be his winding-sheet!

In mingled rout we drove them out
From orchard, field, and glen;
In goodly case it seemed to chase
Our “hunters” home again!

We flaunted in their faces
The flag they thought to scorn,
And left them with a wild “Hurrah!”
To choke their hunting-horn!

Upon a ledge embattled
Above the river strand
We dug the grave for Knowlton
And Leitch of Weedon's band;

And though our star through stress of war
Desert this island throne,
Upon that ledge remains the pledge
That we will claim our own!