322 Southern Historical Society Papers.
Like chaff their parasols went down,
As our gallants rushed; And many a bonnet, robe and gown
Was torn to shreds or crushed, Though well we plied the bayonet,
Still some our efforts braved, Defiant both of blow and threat,
Their handkerchiefs still waved. Thick grew the fight, loud rolled the din,
When, charge! rang out again, And then the cannon thundered in,
And scoured o'er the plain Down, 'neath th' unpitying iron heels
Of horses children sank, While through the crowd the cannon wheels
Mowed roads on either flank, One startled shriek, one hollow groan,
One headlong rush, and then Huzza! the field was all our own,
For we were Banks' men.
That night, released from all our toils,
Our dangers passed and gone; We gladly gathered up the spoils
Our chivalry had won! Five hundred 'kerchiefs we had snatched
From Rebel ladies' hands, Ten parasols, two shoes (not matched)
Some ribbons, belts and bands, And other things that I forgot;
But then you'll find them all As trophies in that hallowed spot
The cradle Faneuil Hall!
And long on Massachusetts shore,
And on Green Mountains' side, Or where Long Island's breakers roar,
And by the Hudson's tide, In times to come, when lamps are lit,
And fires brightly blaze, While round the knees of heroes sit
The young of happier days,
