Classic Poem

Stand by to the whistle! our bivouac's done;
We'll raid on the Schuylkill e'er twinkles the sun.
We'll drive in the pickets and tinder their grain—
Give way to the troopers of Allan McLane!

The creeks they are many that run to the tide,
And each is a roadway to ride and to hide;
We know every ford e'er the city we gain,
Dark fights for the troopers of Allan McLane.

The foragers think they are safe in our realms,
But safer the sabres that topple their helms;
Attend to the whistle—we strike at the main
The flank and the van, shouting: “Allan McLane!”

How rages Sir William our sport to allow,
And gray grow the whiskers of Admiral Howe;
They thought Philadelphia tamely to rein,
But wild are the horsemen of Allan McLane.

Take note to our helmets of leather and brass;
Can you reckon our number as serried we pass?
The fog and the snow are our guidons and skein,
“We're ambushed by tempests,” says Allan McLane.

We're safe in the marsh where the muskrat can move,
We're hid in the quarry the foxes can prove,
Pulaski's horse scattered, Paoli breaks Wayne,
There's left mounted men only Allan McLane.

The Quakers take pay for their poultry and calves,
The Jerseyman trades for his fish and bivalves,
Like the Eagle the fish hawk that strikes with his gain,
We swoop on the prey, shouting “Allan McLane!”

We swim o'er the river, we charge down the streets,
We draw the broadsides from the fort and the fleets;
The chevaux de frise opens wide as the plain
As we leap o'er its spikes, cheering Allan McLane.

Far off Perkiomen and Skippack we trail,
But the Brandywine flanks farther out in the vale;
We shall pester Bill Howe till we sunder his chain
On the Delaware River with Allan McLane.

The dark Wissahickon, Tacony we tread,
We flank around Darby and Germantown dead,
Our pistols are trained on the Anspacher's brain,
Like beaks of the gamecocks of Allan McLane.

The camps they turn out in the snow-drifted gorge,
The drums beat our welcome unto Valley Forge,
As, seeing the Hessian fish caught in our seine,
The flags on the tents dip to Allan McLane.

Stand by to the whistle! Mount! Squadrons awheel!
How moonlight drinks health on the blades of our steel.
See, from the high comb, how the river-like grain
Stands up for the reapers of Allan McLane!