Returning in triumph, instead of reward For the marches we made and the battles we won, There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword— Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done? When this madman abhorred Appealed to the sword, And our leader said—“fight!” did he think we would run? Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were, We feared not to combat with lord or with lown, So we took the old wretch at his word—that was fair; But he dared not come out from his hold in the town, Where he lay with his men, Like a wolf in his den; And in siege of the place we sat steadily down. He made a fierce sally—his force was so strong He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight— But we met in close column his ruffianly throng, And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright; Then while ready we lay For the storming next day, He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night. The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no! Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return; But one course was left us to baffle the foe— The birds would not come if the nest we should burn; So the red, crackling fire Climbed to roof-top and spire, A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn. That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame? That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame? That we smiled when there lay Smoking ruins next day, And nothing was left of the town but its name? We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died; The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then; And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride To give to the gallows the best of our men; But while the grass grows And the clear water flows, The town shall not rise from its ashes again. So, you come for your victim! I’m ready; but, pray, Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring. Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say With the last drink I take. Here’s a health to the King, Who reigns o’er a land Where, against his command, The rogues rule and ruin, and honest men swing. _THE DEERFIELD MASSACRE._