Then naked in those flames they're cast, Too dreadful 'tis to tell, Where they must fry, and burn and die, While cursed Indians yell. Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,-- The youth, and hoary head, Were by those monsters murdered there, And numbered with the dead. Methinks I hear some sprightly youth His mournful state condole: "Oh, that my tender parents knew The anguish of my soul! "But oh! there's none to save my life, Or heed my dreadful fear; I see the tomahawk and knife, And the more glittering spear. "When years ago, I dandled was Upon my parents' knees, I little thought I should be brought To feel such pangs as these. "I hoped for many a joyful day, I hoped for riches' store-- These golden dreams are fled away; I straight shall be no more. "Farewell, fond mother; late I was Locked up in your embrace; Your heart would ache, and even break, If you could know my case. "Farewell, indulgent parents dear, I must resign my breath; I now must die, and here must lie In the cold arms of death. "For oh! the fatal hour is come, I see the bloody knife,-- The Lord have mercy on my soul!" And quick resigned his life. A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse, Pursue the doleful theme; It is no fancy to delude, Nor transitory dream. The Forty Fort was the resort For mother and for child, To save them from the cruel rage Of the fierce savage wild. Now, when the news of this defeat Had sounded in our ears, You well may know our dreadful woe, And our foreboding fears. A doleful sound is whispered round, The sun now hides his head; The nightly gloom forebodes our doom, We all shall soon be dead. How can we bear the dreadful spear, The tomahawk and knife? And if we run, the awful gun Will rob us of our life. But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power! His hand we must adore. He did assuage the savage rage, That they should kill no more. The gloomy night now gone and past, The sun returns again, The little birds from every bush Seem to lament the slain. With aching hearts and trembling hands, We walkèd here and there, Till through the northern pines we saw A flag approaching near. Some men were chose to meet this flag, Our colonel was the chief, Who soon returned and in his mouth He brought an olive leaf. This olive leaf was granted life, But then we must no more Pretend to fight with Britain's king, Until the wars are o'er. And now poor Westmoreland is lost, Our forts are all resigned, Our buildings they are all on fire,-- What shelter can we find? They did agree in black and white, If we'd lay down our arms, That all who pleased might quietly Remain upon their farms.