Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/255

^ %' 1830-40.] THOMAS GREGG. 239 I take my slow and steady flight, It is the song which God has given— At noontide hour or dead of night ; I'll sing it to his praise ; And stream and flood and forest and field Of all within this forest bower, Ever to my mild dominion yield : Mine are the sweetest lays — But whence I come, or where I go, Then, Whippowil ! shall be my song. 'Tis not for mortals on earth to know. In vale or on the the hill ; Each evening at the twilight hour. I'll tune my Whippowil. Whippowil ! SONG OF THE WHHPPOWIL. The sun hath sunk beneath the west, And dark the shadows fall ; THE BATTLE OF THE RIGHT. I'll seek again my forest home, And make my evening call. Go forth ! go forth ! The Battle Cry The zephyr in the grove is hushed, Rings out from every glen ; And every leaf is still ; From every vale and hill-side home So I will seek my wild retreat, Pour forth stout-hearted men ! And chant my Whippowil. Nor sword, nor buckler, pike nor steel. "Whippowil ! They gird them for the fight ; They go — in Heaven's name to wage Dim Night, with sable mantle spread. The Battle of the Right ! Envelops field and flood, And stars with pale and yellow light. With Truth for buckler and for shield. Shine out on vale and wood. In confidence they go ; My mate, too, has begun her strain A promise unto them is given Upon yon distant hill ; To stay the tide of woe. And I will seek my leafy bower. The widow's health cow desolate. And tune my Whippowil. Their mission is to bless ; Whippowil ! Her orphans now that starving cry. Restore to happiness. The watch-dog has retired to rest ; The curfew toll is done ; Then go — and join the valiant band. Nor sound is heard in these deep shades. Ye men of strength and nerve, Save my shrill voice alone ; Resolved ne'er from the path of right Or in yon wild and lonely glen, And rectitude to swerve. The tinkling of a rill ; Go forth ! — Avhen God and duty call. So, in these peaceful solitudes Join in the eager fight : I'll chant my Whippowil. Go fortli ! — in Heaven's name to wage Whippowil ! The Battle of the Right !