We, at Meriam’s Corner posted, heard the fifing and the drumming In the distance creeping onward, which prepared us for their coming; Soon we saw the lines of scarlet, their advance to music timing, When our captain quickly bade us pick our flints and freshen priming. There our little band of freemen, couched in silent ambush lying, Watched the forces, full eight hundred, as they came with colors flying. [Illustration: BATTLE-GROUND AT CONCORD.] ’Twas a goodly sight to see them; but we heeded not its splendor, For we felt their martial bearing hate within our hearts engender, Kindling fire within our spirits, though our eyes a moment watered, As we thought on Moore and Hadley, and their brave companions slaughtered; And we swore to deadly vengeance for the fallen to devote them, And our rage grew hotter, hotter, as our well-aimed bullets smote them. Then, in overpowering numbers, charging bayonet, came their flankers; We were driven as the ships are, by a tempest, from their anchors. But we loaded while retreating, and, regaining other shelter, Saw their proudest on the highway in their life’s blood fall and welter; Saw them fall, or dead or wounded, at our fire so quick and deadly, While the dusty road was moistened with the torrent raining redly. [Illustration: MERIAM’S CORNER, ON THE LEXINGTON ROAD.] From behind the mounds and fences poured the bullets thickly, fastly; From ravines and clumps of coppice leaped destruction grim and ghastly; All around our leaguers hurried, coming hither, going thither, Yet, when charged on by their forces, disappearing, none knew whither; Buzzed around the hornets ever, newer swarms each moment springing, Breaking, rising, and returning, yet continually stinging. [Illustration: HALT OF TROOPS NEAR ELISHA JONES’S HOUSE.] When to Hardy’s Hill their weary, waxing-fainter footsteps brought them, There again the stout Provincials brought the wolves to bay and fought them; And though often backward beaten, still returned the foe to follow, Making forts of every hill-top, and redoubts of every hollow. Hunters came from every farm-house, joining eagerly to chase them— They had boasted far too often that we ne’er would dare to face them. [Illustration: THE PROVINCIALS ON PUNKATASSET.] How they staggered, how they trembled, how they panted at pursuing, How they hurried broken columns that had marched to their undoing; How their stout commander, wounded, urged along his frightened forces, That had marked their fearful progress by their comrades’ bloody corses; How they rallied, how they faltered, how in vain returned our firing, While we hung upon their footsteps with a zealousness untiring.