Part 3 (1/2)

And I heard through all the flurry, ”Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!

Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!”

Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground.

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round him crying,-- And they said, ”O, how they'll miss him!” and, ”What will his mother do?”

Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, ”Mother!”--and--I saw his eyes were blue.

--”Why, grandma, how you're winking!”--Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather; --”Please to tell us what his name was?”--Just your own, my little dear,-- There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!

WARREN'S ADDRESS

JOHN PIERPONT

[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]

_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Ma.s.sachusetts as a Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him instantly._

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle-peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel.

Ask it,--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?

Will ye to your homes retire?

Look behind you!--they're a-fire!

And, before you, see Who have done it!--From the vale On they come!--And will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the G.o.d of battles trust!

Die we may,--and die we must;-- But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

THE OLD CONTINENTALS

GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER