"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?" Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord, For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! "Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound 'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll, We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll-- When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West. JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York, and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been formed. HAARLEM HEIGHTS Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells of the affair of September 16, 1776. They've turned at last! Good-by, King George, Despite your hireling band! The farmer boys have borne a brunt, The 'prentice lads will stand! Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag, Our fight's as good as won; We've made them yield in open field! We've made the Redcoats run! Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn With Knowlton at their head To rout the British pickets out And spend a little lead. We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece, And hurried, fighting, back; For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps Were keen 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 skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!" Their buglers, from the wall, In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt Brayed out the hunting call! Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame In every sunburned face, And every soul was hot as coal To cleanse the foul disgrace. And 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 rose his height; He knew the time had come. He gave the word to Knowlton To lead us on once more-- The pick of old Connecticut,-- And Leitch with Weedon's corps Of proud Virginia Riflemen, Tall hunters of the deer,-- To round the boastful Briton's flank And take him in the rear.