Did the brave old Pater Patriæ
Wear that spur, like a belted knight,
Wear it, through gain and disaster,
From Cambridge to Monmouth fight?
Did it press his steed in hot anger
On Long Island's day of pain?
Did it drive him at terrible Princeton
"Tween two streams of leaden rain?
And here did the buckles loosen,
And no eye look down to see,
When he rode to blast with the lightning
The defiant eyes of Lee?
Did it fall, unfelt and unheeded,
When that fight of despair was won, And Clinton, worn and discouraged, Crept away at the set of the sun?
The lips have long been silent
That could send an answer back; And the spur, all broken and rusted, Has it forgotten its rider's track?
I only know that the pulses
Leap hot, and the senses reel,
When I think that the Spur of Monmouth
May have clasped George Washington's heel! Henry Morford.
MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH.
N the bloody field of Monmouth
Flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne, Fiercely roared the tide of battle,
Thick the sward was heaped with slain.
Foremost, facing death and danger,
Hessian, horse, and grenadier,
In the vanguard, fiercely fighting,
Stood an Irish Cannonier.
Loudly roared his iron cannon,
Mingling ever in the strife,
And beside him, firm and daring,
Stood his faithful Irish wife.
Of her bold contempt of danger
Greene and Lee's Brigades could tell,
Every one knew "Captain Molly,"
And the army loved her well.
Surged the roar of battle round them,
Swiftly flew the iron hail,
Forward dashed a thousand bayonets,
That lone battery to assail.
From the foeman's foremost columns
Swept a furious fusillade,
Mowing down the massed battalions
In the ranks of Greene's Brigade.
Fast and faster worked the gunner,
Soiled with powder, blood, and dust,
English bayonets shone before him,
Shot and shell around him burst;
Still he fought with reckless daring,
Stood and manned her long and well,
Till at last the gallant fellow
Dead - beside his cannon fell.
With a bitter cry of sorrow,
And a dark and angry frown,
Looked that band of gallant patriots
At their gunner stricken down.
"Fall back, comrades, it is folly
Thus to strive against the foe."
"No! not so," cried Irish Molly,
"We can strike another blow."
Quickly leaped she to the cannon,
In her fallen husband's place,
Sponged and rammed it fast and steady,
Fired it in the foeman's face.
Flashed another ringing volley,
Roared another from the gun;
"Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, For the flag of Washington."
Greene's Brigade, though torn and shattered,
Slain and bleeding half their men,
When they heard that Irish slogan,
Turned and charged the foe again.
Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally,
To the front they forward wheel,
And before their rushing onset
Clinton's English columns reel.
Still the cannon's voice in anger
Rolled and rattled o'er the plain,
Till there lay in swarms around it
Mangled heaps of Hessian slain.
"Forward! charge them with the bayonet!"
"T was the voice of Washington,
And there burst a fiery greeting
From the Irish woman's gun.
Monckton falls; against his columns
Leap the troops of Mayne and Lee,
And before their reeking bayonets
Clinton's red battalions flee.
Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing,
Thin the foe's retreating ranks,
And behind them onward dashing
Ogden hovers on their flanks.
Fast they fly, these boasting Britons,
Who in all their glory came,
With their brutal Hessian hirelings
To wipe out our country's name.
Proudly floats the starry banner,
Monmouth's glorious field is won,
And in triumph Irish Molly
Stands beside her smoking gun.
LADIES, in silks and laces,
Lunching with lips agleam,
Know you aught of the places
Yielding such fruit and cream?
South from your harbor-islands
Glisten the Monmouth hills;
There are the ocean highlands,
Lowland meadows and rills,
Berries in field and garden,
Trees with their fruitage low,
Maidens (asking your pardon)
Handsome as cities show.
Know you that, night and morning,
A beautiful water-fay,
Covered with strange adorning,
Crosses your rippling bay?
Her sides are white and sparkling;
She whistles to the shore;
Behind, her hair is darkling,
And the waters part before.
Lightly the waves she measures
Up to the wharves of the town; There, unlading her treasures, Lovingly puts them down.
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