The spirits of your fathers Shall hover o'er each plain, Where in their injured country's cause The immortal brave were slain! Where bold Montgomery fearless fell, Where carnage strew'd the field, In your might shall you fight, And force the foe to yield; And on the heights of Abraham Your country's vengeance wield. Columbia fears no enemy That ploughs the briny main; Her home a mighty continent, Its soil her rich domain! To avenge our much-loved country's wrongs, To the field her sons shall fly, While alarms sound to arms, We'll conquer or we'll die. When Britain's tears may flow in vain, As low her legions lie! Columbia's eagle standard Triumphant then shall tower, Till from the land the foe depart, Driven by its gallant power. Then, then, ye patriot warriors! Our song and feast shall flow, And no more, on our shore, Shall war's dread tempests blow; But the breeze of peace shall gently breathe, Like the winds that murmur low. The song was well received by the company, who were not disposed to be critical. The drum and fife were then brought into play, Brown and Hanson, without entreaty, striking up, "Come out, ye Continentallers." This rollicking tune called up such laughable associations, that one of the young men proposed that it should be sung. No one knew it entire, except Brown, the fifer, who had been the musician of his mess as well as of the company, and Brown complied with the repeated entreaties of the young men, singing the following ludicrous words in a cracked and weak remnant of a voice. Come out, ye continentallers! We're going for to go To fight the red-coat enemy, Who're plaguy "cute," you know. Now, shoulder whoop!--eyes right and dress-- Front!--Davis, wipe your nose-- Port whoop!--that's slick--now, carry whoop! Mike Jones, turn out your toes. Charge bagnet!--that's your sort, my boys: Now, quick time!--march!--that's right; Just so we'd poke the enemy, If they were but in sight. Halt!--shoulder whoop!--stop laughing, Nick-- By platoons, wheel!--halt--dress! Hold up your muzzles on the left; No talking, more or less. Bill Sneezer, keep your canteen down, We're going for to travel; "Captain, I wants to halt a bit, My shoe is full of gravel." Ho--strike up music--for'ard march! Now point your toes, Bob Rogers; See! yonder are the red-coat men-- Let fly upon 'em, sogers. This song was written in the early part of the revolutionary war to burlesque the meeting of the country militia, and afterwards became very popular. Although Brown had not much voice, he managed to give a correct and exceedingly laughable expression to the old song.