Among the successive battles which marked the invasion, that of _El Molino del Rey_ (The King’s Mill) was one of the most spirit-stirring. One of the objects of attack consisted of a range of buildings, five hundred feet in front and well fortified, known by the title of the poem. On the left and farther off was the _Casamata_ or arsenal, loop-holed, and surrounded by a quadrangular field-work. Ravines and ditches, irregularities of ground, the position of the Mexican troops, and their superiority in numbers, made the task exceedingly difficult. The attack was begun at daylight. The enemy fought desperately and bitterly. Carrying the Mexican guns in the open field, the Americans were driven back with great slaughter, but with sufficient support retook them. At right and left the battle raged with a fury that showed the courage and perseverance of both sides. The intrenchments were stormed, but not until after a severe contest, and until house after house within the intrenchments had been broken into, the Mexicans everywhere making a heroic resistance. The loss on both sides was heavy. _BATTLE OF THE KING’S MILL._ Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez, With newspaper held in his hand— “So they’ve built from El Paso a railway That Yankees may visit our land. As guests let them come and be welcome, But not as they came here before; They are rather rough fellows to handle In the rush of the battle and roar. “They took Vera Cruz and its castle; In triumph they marched through the land; We fought them with desperate daring, But lacked the right man to command. They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo— Every mile in their movement it cost; And when they arrived at Puebla, Some thousands of men they had lost. “Ere our capital fell, and the city By foreign invaders was won, We called out among its defenders Each man who could handle a gun. Chapultepec stood in their pathway; Churubusco they had to attack; The Mill of the King—well, I fought there, And they were a hard nut to crack. “While their right was assailing the ramparts, Our force struck their left on the field, Where our colonel, in language that stirred us, To love of our country appealed. And we swore that we never would falter Before either sabre or ball; We would beat back the foeman before us, Or dead on the battle-field fall. “Fine words, you may say, but we meant them; And so when they came up the hill We poured on them volley on volley, And riddled their ranks with a will. Their line in a moment was broken; They closed it, and came with a cheer; But still we fired quickly and deadly, And felt neither pity nor fear.