It did not need its colonel, For soon there came instead An eagle-eyed commander, And on its march he led. ’Twas Pakenham in person, The leader of the field; I knew it by the cheering That loudly round him pealed; And by his quick, sharp movement We felt his heart was stirred, As when at Salamanca He led the fighting Third. I raised my rifle quickly, I sighted at his breast, God save the gallant leader And take him to his rest! I did not draw the trigger, I could not for my life. So calm he sat his charger Amid the deadly strife, That in my fiercest moment A prayer arose from me— God save that gallant leader, Our foeman though he be! Sir Edward’s charger staggers; He leaps at once to ground. And ere the beast falls bleeding Another horse is found. His right arm falls—’tis wounded; He waves on high his left; In vain he leads the movement, The ranks in twain are cleft. The men in scarlet waver Before the men in brown, And fly in utter panic— The soldiers of the Crown! I thought the work was over, But nearer shouts were heard, And came, with Gibbs to head it, The gallant Ninety-third. Then Pakenham, exulting, With proud and joyous glance, Cried, “Children of the tartan— Bold Highlanders—advance! Advance to scale the breastworks, And drive them from their hold, And show the stainless courage That marked your sires of old!” His voice as yet was ringing, When, quick as light, there came The roaring of a cannon, And earth seemed all aflame. Who causes thus the thunder The doom of men to speak? It is the Baratarian, The fearless Dominique. Down through the marshalled Scotsmen The step of death is heard, And by the fierce tornado Falls half the Ninety-third. The smoke passed slowly upward, And, as it soared on high, I saw the brave commander In dying anguish lie. They bear him from the battle Who never fled the foe; Unmoved by death around them His bearers softly go. In vain their care, so gentle, Fades earth and all its scenes; The man of Salamanca Lies dead at New Orleans. But where were his lieutenants? Had they in terror fled? No! Keane was sorely wounded And Gibbs as good as dead. Brave Wilkinson commanding, A major of brigade, The shattered force to rally A final effort made. He led it up our ramparts, Small glory did he gain— Our captives some; some slaughtered, And he himself was slain.