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150 SONGS FOR BOYHOOD.
Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again. And they who fly iu terror deem
A mighty host behind, A.nd hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads� The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain ; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp�
A moment�and away Back to the pathless forest
Before the peep of day.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up ; And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves; And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our baud
With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.