WE were not many,—we who stood | |
| Before the iron sleet that day; | |
| Yet many a gallant spirit would | |
| Give half his years if but he could | |
| Have with us been at Monterey. | 5 |
| |
| Now, here, now there, the shot it hail’d | |
| In deadly drift of fiery spray, | |
| Yet not a single soldier quail’d | |
| When wounded comrades round them wail’d | |
| Their dying shout at Monterey. | 10 |
| |
| And on—still on our column kept | |
| Through walls of flame its withering way; | |
| Where fell the dead, the living stept, | |
| Still charging on the guns which swept | |
| The slippery streets of Monterey. | 15 |
| |
| The foe himself recoil’d aghast, | |
| When, striking where the strongest lay, | |
| We swoop’d his flanking batteries past, | |
| And braving full their murderous blast, | |
| Storm’d home the towers of Monterey. | 20 |
| |
| Our banners on those turrets wave, | |
| And there our evening bugles play: | |
| Where orange-boughs above their grave | |
| Keep green the memory of the brave | |
| Who fought and fell at Monterey. | 25 |
| |
| We are not many,—we who press’d | |
| Beside the brave who fell that day,— | |
| But who of us has not confess’d | |
| He’d rather share their warrior rest | |
| Than not have been at Monterey? | 30 |
| |
