Then we, three hundred strong,
Burning with sense of wrong,
Raised our loud battle song,
Sounding the onset.
From the old fort there broke,
Volleying flame and smoke,
And the loud echoes woke
With pale face thunder.
And shot in torrents fell,
As if the hottest hell,
Of which the black robes tell;
Opened in wonder,
Woe to the white race, woe!
Wild we dashed at the foe,
Showering blow on blow
On their defences
We with our bosoms bare,
Surged up against their lair;
They in a brave despair,
Behind their fences,
Belched out a fiery hail
Like leaves in autumn pale,
Fell we before that gale
In the death heaping.
Till the young grass grew red
With the blood blanket spread,
Under Iroquois dead,
In glory sleeping.
Sank down the big round sun,
And the red fight was done,
To be again begun
In the grey dawning;
Remained there but twenty two,
With whom we had to do,
Of that devoted few
For whom death was yawning.
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