"For we are a skulking lot," says he,

"Of land-thieves hereabout,

And these bold señores, two to one,

Have come to smoke us out."

Santa Anna and Castillon,
Almonte brave and gay,
Portilla red from Goliad,

And Cos with his smart array.
Dulces and cigaritos,

And the light guitar, ting-tum ! Sant' Anna courts siesta,

And Sam Houston taps his drum.

The buck stands still in the timber "Is it patter of nuts that fall?" The foal of the wild mare whinnies

Did he hear the Comanche call? In the brake by the crawling bayou The slinking she-wolves howl;

And the mustang's snort in the river sedge

Has startled the paddling fowl.

A soft, low tap, and a muffled tap,

And a roll not loud nor longWe would not break Sant' Anna's nap, Nor spoil Almonte's song. Saddles and knives and rifles!

Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered" Alamo !" And Karnes hissed "Goliad !"

The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,

And the fifer gripped his gun.
Oh, for one free, wild, Texan yell,

As we took the slope in a run!
But never a shout nor a shot we spent,
Nor an oath nor a prayer, that day,
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,

And then we blazed away.

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,
And the glory that Travis made,
With Bowie's lunge, and Crockett's shot,
And Fannin's dancing blade;
And the heart of the fighter, bounding
free

In his joy so hot and mad
When Millard charged for Alamo,
Lamar for Goliad.

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking

spur,

Into the shock and rout:

"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge; There's no sneak's back-way out!" Muzzle or butt for Goliad,

Pistol and blade and fist!

Oh, for the knife that never glanced,
And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos,

Song and the mandolin!
That gory swamp is a gruesome grove
To dance fandangoes in.

We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd

That fell in that frantic rout;
We slew and slew till the sun set red,
And the Texan star flashed out.

THE MARYLAND BATTALION

SPRUCE Macaronis, and pretty to see,
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;
Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall,
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;
Prancing soldados so martial and bluff,
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff -
But our cockades were clasped with a
mother's low prayer,

And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.

There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,

And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the mills;

By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,

And keen cracked the rifles in Martense 's lane;

For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,

And the grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.

Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,

The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.

The brutal boom-boom of their swart can

noneers

Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!

The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!

When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain,

And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;

When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,

And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!

"O Stirling, good Stirling! how long must we wait?

Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?

Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,

279

With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?

Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,

When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"

Tralara! Tralara! Now praise we the

Lord

For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!

Tralara Tralara! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-bye!

"Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound

'T will be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.

If we hold the road open, tho' Death take the toll,

We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll

When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,

And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.

THE WITCH'S WHELP1

ALONG the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, Covered with thick green scum; the billows rise,

And fill them to the brim with clouded foam,

And then subside, and leave the scum again.

The ribbed sand is full of hollow gulfs, Where monsters from the waters come and lie.

Great serpents bask at noon along the rocks, To me no terror; coil on coil they roll Back to their holes before my flying feet. The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god, Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep; Him I molest not; when he flaps his wing A whirlwind rises, when he swims the deep

It threatens to engulf the trembling isle. Sometimes when winds do blow, and clouds are dark,

I seek the blasted wood whose barkless trunks

Are bleached with summer suns; the creaking trees

Stoop down to me, and swing me right and

left

Through crashing limbs, but not a jot care I. The thunder breaks above, and in their lairs The panthers roar; from out the stormy clouds

Whose hearts are fire, sharp lightnings rain around

And split the oaks; not faster lizards run Before the snake up the slant trunks than I, Not faster down, sliding with hands and feet.

I stamp upon the ground, and adders rouse, Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs; beneath the leaves

They couch, or under rocks, and roots of

trees

Felled by the winds; through briery undergrowth