The pewter-ware is melted into bullets--long past due, The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new. Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayer Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share; He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true, For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare. The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife; With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by. The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strife That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry. At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow; At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe: The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide. Our rifles speak from fence and tree--in front, on every side. The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woe Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride. The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air; No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod; But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare; They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God. The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled, On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled. Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize: That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise. A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes. The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town; They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington. In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown; And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done. WALLACE RICE. LEXINGTON [1775] No Berserk thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet Their homespun breasts in that old day. Their feet had trodden peaceful ways; They loved not strife, they dreaded pain; They saw not, what to us is plain, That God would make man's wrath His praise. No seers were they, but simple men; Its vast results the future hid: The meaning of the work they did Was strange and dark and doubtful then. Swift as their summons came they left The plough mid-furrow standing still, The half-ground corn grist in the mill, The spade in earth, the axe in cleft. They went where duty seemed to call, They scarcely asked the reason why; They only knew they could but die, And death was not the worst of all! Of man for man the sacrifice, All that was theirs to give, they gave. The flowers that blossomed from their grave Have sown themselves beneath all skies.