THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent

On the rugged forest-ground,

And light our fire with the branches rent

By winds from the beeches round.

Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,

But a wilder is at hand,

With hail of iron and rain of blood,

To sweep and waste the land.

How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,

That startle the sleeping bird!

To-morrow eve must the voice be still,

And the step must fall unheard.

The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,

In Ticonderoga's towers,

And ere the sun rise twice again,

Must they and the lake be ours.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides

Where the fire-flies light the brake;

A ruddier juice the Briton hides

In his fortress by the lake.

Build high the fire, till the panther leap

From his lofty perch in flight,

And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep

For the deeds of to-morrow night.