Curse on the fortune, of _Britannia's_ arms, That plays the jilt with us. Shall these few men Beat back the flower, and best half of our troops, While on our side, so many ships of war, And floating batt'ries, from the mystic tide, Shake all the hill, and sweep its ridgy top? O Gods! no time can blot its memory out. We've men enough, upon the field today, To bury, this small handful, with the dust Our march excites--back to the charge--close ranks, And drive these wizards from th' enchanted ground. The reinforcement, which bold Clinton heads, Gives such superiority of strength, That let each man of us but cast a stone, We cover this small hill, with these few foes, And over head, erect a pyramid, The smoke, you see, enwraps us in its shade, On, then, my countrymen, and try once more, To change the fortune, of the inglorious day. SCENE VI. _Bunkers-Hill._ GARDINER [_to the American Army_]. You see, brave soldiers, how an evil cause, A cause of slavery, and civil death, Unmans the spirit, and strikes down the soul. The gallant _Englishman_, whose fame in arms, Through every clime, shakes terribly the globe, Is found this day, shorn of his wonted strength, Repuls'd, and driven from the flaming hill. Warren is fallen, on fair honour's bed, Pierc'd in the breast, with ev'ry wound before. 'Tis ours, now tenfold, to avenge his death, And offer up, a reg'ment of the foe, Achilles-like, upon the Hero's tomb. See, reinforc'd they face us yet again, And onward move in phalanx to the war. O noble spirits, let this bold attack, Be bloody to their host. GOD is our Aid, Give then full scope, to just revenge this day. SCENE VII. _The Bay-Shore._ _The British Army once more repuls'd, HOWE again rallies his flying troops._ HOWE. But that so many mouths can witness it, I would deny myself an _Englishman_, And swear this day, that with such cowardice, No kindred, or alliance, has my birth. O base degen'rate souls, whose ancestors, At Cressy, Poitiers, and at Agincourt, With tenfold numbers, combated, and pluck'd The budding laurels, from the brows of France. Back to the charge, once more, and rather die, Burn'd up, and wither'd on this bloody hill, Than live the blemish of your Country's fame, With everlasting infamy, oppress'd. Their ammunition, as you hear, is spent, So that unless their looks, and visages, Like fierce-ey'd Basilisks, can strike you dead; Return, and rescue yet, sweet Countrymen, Some share of honour, on this hapless day. Let some brave officers stand on the rear, And with the small sword, and sharp bayonet, Drive on each coward that attempts to lag, That thus, sure death may find the villain out, With more dread certainty, than him who moves, Full in the van, to meet the wrathful foe. SCENE VIII. _Bunkers-Hill._ _GARDINER, desperately wounded and borne from the field by two soldiers._ GARDINER.