"Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. "Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gather'd To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. "Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles. The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. "Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, With tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore." "And we did drive the British away--or Marion and his men, and the rest of our brave soldiers did," exclaimed Ned when the recitation of the poem was finished, "didn't they, grandma?" "Yes, Neddie boy, God helped us to get free and become the great nation which we are to-day; and to him let us give all the glory and the praise." "Yes, grandma, I know that even those brave and good fighters couldn't have done it if God hadn't helped them. Did Marion live long after the war was over?" "About a dozen years. He died on the 29th of February, 1795. We are told his last words were, 'Thank God, since I came to man's estate I have never intentionally done wrong to any man.'" "And is that all the story about him?" asked Ned regretfully. "Enough for the present, I think," replied his grandma; "when you are older you can read of him in history for yourself. However, some of his work will come in incidentally as I go on with some other historical sketches. I want to tell you something of Mrs. Rebecca Motte--one of the brave and patriotic women living in South Carolina at that time--and the doings of the British and Americans on her estate.