Poetry Archives

We are scarcely one to seven,
  But our cause is just;
Help us in our trial, heaven!
  Keep the ford we must.

Swiftly through the reeds and rushes
  Pours the Outarde flood,
Turned by sunset’s rosy flushes
  To a stream of blood.

Sprinkled with the hues of slaughter,
  Wave the forest trees.
Gently o’er the sparkling water,
  In the autumn breeze.

Strange that Nature should remind us
  Of the coming fight!
Let it come—it will but find us
  Battling for the right.

Never shall the land that gave us
  Birth be held a thrall:
Ere the Stars and Stripes enslave us,
  Death shall have us all!

Quickly in this silent dingle
  Raise the abatis,
Near where Outarde waters mingle
  With the Chateauguay.

Hasten, Night, across the meadows,
  Kiss the streams to sleep,
Wrap us in thy cloak of shadows,
  Bid the stars not peep.

Night has passed; the birds, awaking,
  Greet the dawning day.
Wherefore are our foemen making
  Such a long delay?

Hark! at last they come; now, steady!
  Wait the signal gun.
When I fire, fire you. Now! ready?
  Fire! Ah! lads, well done!

Like a vaulted wave that shatters
  On a rocky coast,
And in mist and salt spray scatters,
  Breaks the mighty host.

Like the wave, that swift returning
  Bursts upon the strand,
Falls the foe, with hatred burning,
  On our little band.

We are scarcely one to seven,
  But our cause is just;
Help us in our trial, heaven!
  Keep the ford we must.

Fall the shot-clipped leaves about us
  Like the summer rain;
Charge the bitter foes to rout us
  Ever and again.

Quarter never asked nor given,
  Still we beat them back,
Though our slender ranks are riven
  With each fierce attack.

Long the fearful battle rages,
  Death his harvest reaps—
He will live in history’s pages
  In the grave who sleeps.

Round us, stronger, ever stronger,
  Sweeps the hostile horde;
If the strife continue longer,
  We shall lose the ford.

We are scarcely one to seven,
  But our cause is just;
Help us in our trial, heaven!
  Keep the ford we must!

Hope! The fox, when worn with running,
  Subtlety must use:
Let us strive to win by cunning
  What by force we lose.

Bugler, seek the forest border
  Whence our friends should come;
For attack, sound loud the order,
  Beat upon the drum.

So our foes may think in error
  That our friends are nigh,
And, disturbed by sudden terror,
  From the conflict fly.

Through the wood the bugler dashes,
  Far beyond the fray—
While the deadly musket flashes
  Point him on his way,

Faintly o’er the din of battle,
  On the ear there fall
From afar a drum’s sharp rattle,
  And a bugle call.

Through the forest, drawing nearer,
  Ring the bugle notes,
And the drum-beat, quicker, clearer,
  On the calm air floats.

Cheer! my lads, and cease from firing,
  Sheathe the blood-stained sword,
For our foemen are retiring—
  We have kept the ford.