Tell thee about it? Yes, although ’twas little of a fight. Abner, thee put up this friend’s beast; he’ll tarry here to-night. And thee must take into thee mind, those who in battle stand Know little of what’s going on, save just on either hand; And much of my recital thee will find much better told In some well-written chronicle made in the days of old. [Illustration: BATTLE OF TRENTON.] But I could tell thee all about the crossing ere the day, The marching up to Birmingham, the silence by the way, The rushing into Trenton with friend Sullivan and those; And how when first we saw the foe a mighty shouting rose; And I can tell thee something more which no one else could do— Can name to thee the very man who Rahl the Hessian slew. Thee knows where Newbold’s Island stands? Thee ought. Yes, that is true; The English Farm has nigh it stood since sixteen-eighty-two. Thee knows the old stone farm-house looking out upon the tide Slantwise across the river on the Pennsylvany side? In that house I was born and bred, and lived till twenty-one, As all the Comforts had for years, from father unto son. That year my father rode up here and bought this farm for me; For Issachar he lived at home, and we could not agree. He leaned too much on his birthright, so father to us said, “Two farms had better hold ye!” and he got me this instead; And I came here to work it. ’Twas a goodly start in life: The place had been well tilled, and all I needed was a wife. I went among the women folk, as usual with a youth, And soon I fell in love with one, Friend Scudder’s daughter, Ruth; And straightway found the damsel moved, and in her spirit free Before the Friends in meeting to stand up along with me. And we would be united, if our people’s minds were clear, On Fourth-day of the first week of the First-month in next year. The weeks that came were pleasant weeks, the world was all in tune; The stars were always bright at night, the month was fair as June. Dear Ruth! whose eyes were mild as doves’, whose tones were sweet as birds’— More pleasant was the maid to me than gold or land or herds. Sweet Ruth! at eighty-two my ears find music in the name; But human bliss must reach its end, and bleak December came. Meanwhile the people round us fought, the country was one camp; Sometimes, far in the dead of night, I’d hear the soldiers’ tramp. The Friends were loyal? Nay, not all; if loyalty be such As favors fraud and winks at wrong, then few were loyal—much; Yet few felt free to go to war—they dwelt upon the word Which says that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword.