Classic Poem

The snows were melted from Valley Forge;
The blood was drunk by the sodden clay;
And, counting the score against King George,
They sharpened their swords for Monmouth day.

But the devil may take the caitiff Lee!
In the front of battle his courage quailed,
And the lions leaping to victory
Fell back when their leader's hare-heart failed.

Till the Chieftain came with his face aflame,
And an angry hand on a ready hilt,
Halting the mob with a taunt of shame,
And a hot, fierce curse on the traitor's guilt.

So we see him now in his godlike wrath,
Firing the souls of meaner men,
Standing athwart the coward's path,
And driving the victor back again.

And once again when, the battle won,
And the beaten foe in ignoble flight,
He calls for the soldier who served the gun
In Wayne's brigade on the bloody right.

How the soldiers cheer, in their comrade pride,
As a woman steps from the cannoneers,
And her mantling blushes fail to hide
The smoke of battle and stain of tears.

She is only a soldier's Irish wife;
But yesterday, when the fight went hard,
The hoTheart's blood of her soldier's life
Made a pool by his gun on Monmouth sward.

And the captain turned away his head,—
“Take out of the battle the idle gun;
There's no one to serve it now,” he said:
But a white-faced woman cried, “Yes, there's one.”

And all day long, through the fire and smoke,
And the din of battle and bullets' hum,
The battery's thunderous voice outspoke,
And Pitcher's cannon was never dumb.

Powder-stained is the brown hand yet,
As the Chieftain holds it and speaks his thanks;
And “Sergeant Molly,” by his brevet,
Goes proudly back to the cheering ranks.