Eager for the hour's amusement, Ever foremost in adventure; And the stranger's name was Dunlap, And his home was in Lafayette. He was one of twenty-seven, Who advanced on the Militia, At the silent hour of midnight; Who attacked the Regimentals, Near the bridge across Dix River, In the county we call Lincoln; Who invaded the dominions Of the annual encampment, On the fair October evening, Eighteen hundred eight and thirty. Sweetly rest the noble Cornstalks, On their arms are calmly sleeping, Resting on their arms by moonlight, Resting, ignorant of danger. Bright the ever-shifting heavens, Dark the trees and woodland shadows, 'Round the band of Regimentals, Near the river-bridge of Lincoln. Gently came the night besiegers, Softly marched the twenty-seven, When a sharp, out-standing picket Sounded forth the note of warning, With his damp and rusty weapon, Blazoned forth the call of danger, With the snapping of his musket. Quick the camp is in commotion. "To arms!" "To arms!" shout the Militia, The surprised and sleepy Cornstalks. And the men run hither, thither In a search for the assailants, When a noise of tramping horses, Through the river-bridge, attracts them. 'Twas a feint arranged beforehand, To delude the Regimentals, And they dashed on to the outskirts, Dashed the wild, bewildered Cornstalks, In a wayward false direction. The young Guards meanwhile crept onward, Softly crept to camp behind them: Four platoons of jolly Guardsmen, March and counter-march upon them, Fire blank cartridges among them, Lighting up the woods around them; Thrust the bayonets dull before them, March and counter-march in order, Fire and load again the flintlocks, Till the woodland fairly blazes. In one of these illuminations, Dunlap saw the foe approaching, Coming 'round to flank the columns Of the bold midnight invaders. Then he ordered forth his platoon, To cut off the brave Militia, To arrest the flanking Cornstalks, When pell-mell fell all together, In the hard-contested battle. But the weak, outnumbered Guardsmen, --Some among the twenty-seven-- Soon were caught and held in capture, Soon were dragged within the circle Of the annual encampment. All the others scampered swiftly, Scampered off in each direction, Struggling, seeking to escape them, Fleeing from the Regimentals. Dunlap found himself confronted By a single Lincoln Cornstalk, (Dr. Huffman, a "Militia,") Who essayed at once to take him. Hand-to-hand in duel comic, They careered with flintlocks rusty, They embraced with bayonets blunted, Dunlap all the while retreating, Huffman all the while pursuing, Till a wide ravine arrested, Stopped their wild, ferocious progress. Not for long the pause, however; Dunlap, lithe of limb and active, Sprang across the yawning chasm, Huffman, chasing, fell within it, Rolling down the steep embankment.