John Lewis, thy vaunt shall be tested, John Lewis, thy boast shall be tried; Two maidens are with thee for shelter, The wife of thy youth by thy side; And thy foemen pour down like a river When spring-rains have swollen its tide. They come from the depths of the forest, They scatter in rage through the dell, Five score, led by young Kiskepila, And leap to their work with a yell, Like the shrieks of an army of demons Let loose from their prison in hell. Oh, then there were shrieking and wailing, And praying for mercy in vain; Through the skulls of the hapless and helpless The hatchet sank in to the brain; And the slayers tore, fastly and fiercely, The scalps from the heads of the slain. By the ruthless and blood-thirsty Mingos Encompassed on every side, Cut off from escape to the block-house, No way from pursuers to hide, With a prayer to the Father Almighty, Unresisting, the innocents died. John Lewis, in torture of spirit, Beheld them ply hatchet and knife, And said, “Were I younger and stronger, And fit as of yore for the strife! Oh, had I from now until sunset The vigor of earlier life!” IV. Unsated with horror and carnage, Their arms all bedabbled with gore, The foemen, with purpose determined, Assembled the block-house before, And their leader exclaimed, “Ho! John Lewis! The Mingos are here at the door. “The mystery-men of our nation Declare that the blood you have shed Has fallen so fastly and freely The white clover flowers have grown red; And that never will safety be with us Till you are a prisoner or dead. “So keep us not waiting, old panther; Come forth from your log-bounded lair! If in quiet you choose to surrender, Your life at the least we will spare; But refuse, and the scalping-knife bloody Shall circle ere long in your hair.” “Cowards all,” answered Lewis; “now mark me. Beside me are good-rifles three; I can sight on the bead true as ever, My wife she can load, do you see? You may war upon children and women, Beware how you war upon me.” They rushed on the block-house in anger; They rushed on the block-house in vain; Swift sped the round ball from the rifle— The foremost invader was slain; And ere they could bear back the fallen, The dead of the foemen were twain. So, firmly and sternly he fought them, And steadily, six hours and more; And often they rushed to the combat, And often in terror forbore; But never they wounded John Lewis, Who slew of their number a score.