The Soul Of A Century/White Mountain
The Battle’s lost, the ranks flee past recall
- - - Only three hundred heroes stand and fight.
“Surrender now, but futile further spite!”
Three hundred men still stand along the wall.
Regiments fore and aft and around them all
- - - Only beyond them, the blue tinged mountain forts
Their native brownish huts with snow white courts!
Not one of them would yield along the wall.
The muskets roared, - - - men worked each pointed halberd,
- - - The aged oaks above them shook and fell
Man after man fell dead along the rampart,
Man after man kept standing in death’s Hell.
The King escaped - - - the coward saved his head.
A Nation defeated . . lives proudly in her dead.
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