No drums were beat no bugles rang; but, oh! the martial tread
Of twice ten thousand stalwart men upon an Irish hill
Made sweeter music to our hearts than trump or clarion shrill
IV
Oh, bravely gleamed our burnished blades in noontide's golden ray
And blightely sung the summer birds to cheer us on our way
Until we stood on Corbet's Hill one mile outside the town
And halting there for night's repose we laid our weapons down.
V
But ere the Sun arose again the call to arms was made
And in the twilight of the morn our troops were all arrayed
And in the first flush of the day our herald went across
To summon General Johnson to yield up the town of Ross.
VI
Though outlawed men & goaded long to madness or despair