A woman fair and stately, Who loved her husband well, And mourned, nor ever wedded more, When he in battle fell. She sent with us this stripling, And thus to him she said, “Return with honor to your home, Or stay among the dead. “You are the stay and comfort Of my declining years; That I am loath to part with you, Witness these bitter tears. “But now these foul invaders Sweep hill and valley o’er, Go! drive them from these mountains free, Or see my face no more!” And there I saw his ringlets Lie, bloody, on his cheek; I caught his eye, and stooped to hear The words that he might speak. “A message to my mother, If you survive the day: And say her darling son was still The foremost in the fray. “My spirit to my Maker I yield, and trust that He Forgives my sins for sake of Him Who died upon the tree. “Yet ’tis a thing of terror, When youthful hopes are bright, And youthful blood flows full and free, To bid the world good-night. “Go, comrade, to your duty, And leave me here to die—” His pulses stopped, I turned away, I had no time to sigh. But filled with sudden fury, I joined the strife again, Nor paused to watch the fight around Till I three foes had slain— One for my early schoolmate, One for my neighbor old, And one for him with golden hair That lay so stark and cold. The foe raised shouts exulting; We answered not at all; But still with steady coolness poured Our rain of rifle-ball. But hark! a voice is ringing As clearly as a drum— ’Tis Forguson’s—“Charge bayonet! And drive the rebel scum!” III. Down gallantly and boldly The British soldiers came, When on their wall of bristling steel We hurled our scorching flame. They paused a single moment, And then they broke and fled; But Forguson re-formed their ranks, Proud riding at their head. They fell on us like panthers In laurel roughs at bay, And at their front, compact and firm, The Cleaveland men gave way. But ere a rod they drove them, Sevier came back again, And up the ridge the Britons ran, Thinned by the leaden rain. Relieved by reinforcements, They wheeled and charged again, O’er rock and hillock, log and stone, And through the heaps of slain. On Shelby and on Campbell They charged in wrath once more, Though every step they made in front Was in their comrades’ gore. But Cleaveland now had rallied, Sevier kept firing fierce, And through our solid centre there They vainly strove to pierce. Then first there rose our shouting, And rang our wild hurra; For well we knew that they would lose And we would win the day.