Then rushed the swart Mobilians Like hornets from their nest; Against our bristling lances Was bared each savage breast; With arrow-head and club and stone, Upon our band they prest. “Retreat in steady order! But slay them as ye go!” Exclaimed the brave De Soto, And with each word a blow That sent a savage soul to doom He dealt upon the foe. “Strike well who would our honor From spot or tarnish save! Strike down the haughty Pagan, The infidel and slave! Saint Mary Mother sits above, And smiles upon the brave. “Strike! all my gallant comrades! Strike! gentlemen of Spain! Upon the traitor wretches Your deadly anger rain, Or never to your native land Return in pride again!” Then hosts of angry foemen We fiercely held at bay, Through living walls of Pagans We cut our bloody way; And though by thousands round they swarmed, We kept our firm array. At length they feared to follow; We stood upon the plain, And dressed our shattered columns; When, slacking bridle rein, De Soto, wounded as he was, Led to the charge again. For now our gallant horsemen Their steeds again had found, That had been fastly tethered Unto the trees around, Though some of these, by arrows slain, Lay stretched upon the ground. And as the riders mounted, The foe, in joyous tones, Gave vent to shouts of triumph, And hurled a shower of stones; But soon the shouts were changed to wails, The cries of joy to moans. Down on the scared Mobilians The furious rush was led; Down fell the howling victims Beneath the horses’ tread; The angered chargers trod alike On dying and on dead. Back to the wooden ramparts, With cut and thrust and blow, We drove the panting savage, The very walls below, Till those above upon our heads Huge rocks began to throw. Whenever we retreated The swarming foemen came— Their wild and matchless courage Put even ours to shame— Rushing upon our lances’ points, And arquebuses’ flame. Three weary hours we fought them, And often each gave way; Three weary hours, uncertain The fortune of the day; And ever where they fiercest fought De Soto led the fray. Baltasar de Gallegos Right well displayed his might; His sword fell ever fatal, Death rode its flash of light; And where his horse’s head was turned The foe gave way in fright. At length before our daring The Pagans had to yield, And in their stout enclosure They sought to find a shield, And left us, wearied with our toil, The masters of the field.