In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon shot; When the files Of the isles From the smoky night-encampment bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle breakers o'er the green sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red Saint George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm drift, With hot, sweeping anger, came the horse guard's clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white, infernal Powder cloud; And his broad sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud. Then the blue Bullets flew And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six-pounder Hurling death! [Illustration] [Illustration] THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR. [Descriptive of the daring bravery of Captain John Paul Jones, in his cruise in the Irish Channel in 1778.] (From Admiral Luce's "Naval Songs.") 'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,-- With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale, On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale. It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head. There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.