“Up steep and stern King’s Mountain Went Forguson, I learn; Should men take heart to deal a blow, He never would return. “Out then and scour the counties, Our forces shall combine, And, ready for the battle, cross The Carolina line.” Said gallant William Campbell— “I’m with you there, old friend; Though borne by numbers to the earth, We will not break nor bend. “Three hundred western hunters I volunteer to bring, All loyal to their country’s cause, Though rebel to the king. “All hardy western hunters, Who serve for love, not hire; Each prompt to mark the foeman dark, And drop him when they fire.” Sevier was in their counsel— “Three hundred I can bring To meet these savage myrmidons Of George, our former king. “Each man is firm and fearless, Each uses rifle well; Nor sabre-stroke, nor musket-ball, Upon our ranks may tell. “From home or over ocean They fear no haughty foes—” ’Twas thus he boasted of his band, And I was one of those. Then word went out that Shelby, With Campbell and Sevier, Against the common enemy Would lead the mountaineer. With moccasons corked, and rifles New flinted every one, Right soon a thousand brave and strong Were gathered at Doe Run. To them came Cleaveland’s forces, When once they left the glen, And mounted on their own good steeds Rode sixteen hundred men. Campbell, as chief commander, The centre column led; And with him Shelby’s regiment, With Shelby at its head. The left was led by Cleaveland, The right obeyed Sevier; And like the sky which bent o’erhead Each brow was calm and clear. Then this laconic order Was passed both left and right— “_Tie overcoats, pick touch-holes, prime, And ready be for fight!_” We neared where they stood waiting, And cleft our force in three; And then dismounting, to the limbs Tied horses silently. The centre up the mountain Pressed eager to the fight, While round the base, to gain his rear, The wings swept left and right. In calm and deadly silence, With firm and steady tramp, On pressed our three divisions towards The centre of their camp. Then came their muskets’ rattle, And comrades at my side, Whom I had known for many years, Were stricken down, and died. Uriah Byrne, of Black Fork, A younger man than I— His hot blood spurting in my face— Fell at my feet to die. And swarthy Robin Harper, Whose house was nigh to mine, Pierced by a bullet, fell and left A wife and orphans nine. And golden-haired John Bowen, A boy scarce past sixteen— I knew his mother ere his birth, And few so fair I’ve seen—