Samuel Woodworth (1784–1842)

DEEP murmuring down the lonely dell,

The dull tattoo, with drowsy swell,

Had bid the march-worn soldier rest,

With armour buckled on his breast.

But, hark! what cry alarms?

The foe at hand—to arms!

And, darting from the ground,

The slumbering veterans bound,

While the bugle sounds the charge, rousing echo with the sound.

And now the cannon’s sullen roar

Deep rolls along Ontario’s shore,

While Freedom’s sons surprised remain,

Their watchword stole—their pickets slain.

In vain their trump alarms,

In vain they cry, To arms!

The foe from ambush springs,

Their yell the welkin rings,

While the bugle sounds retreat, adding speed to terror’s wings.

Shall Freedom’s veterans fly the field,

Her heroes shrink, her chieftains yield?

Say, where’s the spirit of the brave

Who bled Columbia’s rights to save?

It lives! it breathes! it warms!

Roused by the clash of arms,

Vengeance, with eye of flame,

Fires with a love of fame,

While the bugle sounds the rally until victory we claim.