| |
| OUR band is few but true and tried, | |
| Our leader frank and bold; | |
| The British soldier trembles | |
| When Marion’s name is told. | |
| Our fortress is the good greenwood, | 5 |
| Our tent the cypress-tree; | |
| We know the forest round us, | |
| As seamen know the sea. | |
| We know its walls of thorny vines, | |
| Its glades of reedy grass, | 10 |
| Its safe and silent islands | |
| Within the dark morass. | |
| |
| Woe to the English soldiery | |
| That little dread us near! | |
| On them shall light at midnight | 15 |
| A strange and sudden fear: | |
| When, waking to their tents on fire, | |
| They grasp their arms in vain, | |
| And they who stand to face us | |
| Are beat to earth again; | 20 |
| And they who fly in terror deem | |
| A mighty host behind, | |
| And hear the tramp of thousands | |
| Upon the hollow wind. | |
| |
| Then sweet the hour that brings release | 25 |
| From danger and from toil: | |
| We talk the battle over, | |
| And share the battle’s spoil. | |
| The woodland rings with laugh and shout, | |
| As if a hunt were up, | 30 |
| And woodland flowers are gathered | |
| To crown the soldier’s cup. | |
| With merry songs we mock the wind | |
| That in the pine-top grieves, | |
| And slumber long and sweetly | 35 |
| On beds of oaken leaves. | |
| |
| Well knows the fair and friendly moon | |
| The band that Marion leads— | |
| The glitter of their rifles, | |
| The scampering of their steeds. | 40 |
| ’Tis life to guide the fiery barb | |
| Across the moonlight plain; | |
| ’Tis life to feel the night-wind | |
| That lifts the tossing mane. | |
| A moment in the British camp— | 45 |
| A moment—and away | |
| Back to the pathless forest, | |
| Before the peep of day. | |
| |
| Grave men there are by broad Santee, | |
| Grave men with hoary hairs; | 50 |
| Their hearts are all with Marion, | |
| For Marion are their prayers. | |
| And lovely ladies greet our band | |
| With kindliest welcoming, | |
| With smiles like those of summer, | 55 |
| And tears like those of spring. | |
| For them we wear these trusty arms, | |
| And lay them down no more | |
| Till we have driven the Briton, | |
| Forever, from our shore. | 60 |
| |
