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 Of 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 St. 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-guards' clangor On our flanks: Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the bareheaded Colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broadsword 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. GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER. Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where, through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion, it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men. VALLEY FORGE From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies" [1777-78] O'er town and cottage, vale and height, Down came the Winter, fierce and white, And shuddering wildly, as distraught At horrors his own hand had wrought. His child, the young Year, newly born, Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn, As on a frozen heath benighted. In vain the hearths were set aglow, In vain the evening lamps were lighted, To cheer the dreary realm of snow: Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed, Nor the young Year's wailing soothed. How sad the wretch at morn or eve Compelled his starving home to leave, Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift, Toils slowly on from rift to rift, Still hearing in his aching ear The cry his fancy whispers near, Of little ones who weep for bread Within an ill-provided shed!