No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. But he trusted in love, from his Father above, In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he soon must die; for he soon must die." The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- The cruel general! the cruel general!-- His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, And said that was all; and said that was all. They took him and bound him and bore him away, Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. 'T was there the base hirelings, in royal array, His cause did deride; his cause did deride. Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent; for him to repent. He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood As his words do presage, as his words do presage. "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE BATTLE OF TRENTON (From Griswold's "Curiosities of American literature." 1843.) On Christmas-day in seventy-six, Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed, For Trenton marched away. The Delaware see! the boats below! The light obscured by hail and snow! But no signs of dismay. Our object was the Hessian band, That dared invade fair freedom's land, And quarter in that place. Great Washington he led us on, Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun; Had never known disgrace. In silent march we passed the night, Each soldier panting for the fight, Though quite benumbed with frost. Greene on the left at six began, The right was led by Sullivan Who ne'er a moment lost. Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread, That rebels risen from the dead Were marching into town. Some scampered here, some scampered there, And some for action did prepare; But soon their arms laid down. Twelve hundred servile miscreants, With all their colors, guns, and tents, Were trophies of the day. The frolic o'er, the bright canteen, In centre, front, and rear was seen Driving fatigue away. Now, brothers of the patriot bands, Let's sing deliverance from the hands Of arbitrary sway. And as our life is but a span, Let's touch the tankard while we can. In memory of that day. [Illustration] The Fate of JOHN BURGOYNE