BY ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER.
THE squadron is forming, the war-bugles play.
To saddle, brave comrades, stout hearts for a fray!
Our Captain is mounted–strike spurs, and away!
No breeze shakes the blossoms or tosses the grain;
But the wind of our speed floats the galloper’s mane,
As he feels the bold rider’s firm hand on the rein.
Lo! dim in the starlight their white tents appear!
Ride softly! ride slowly! the onset is near!
More slowly! more softly! the sentry may hear!
Now fall on the rebel–a tempest of flame!
Strike down the false banner whose triumph were shame!
Strike, strike for the true flag, for freedom and fame!
Hurrah! sheathe your swords! the carnage is done.
All red with our valor, we welcome the sun,
Up, up with the stars! we have won! we have won!