THE streets are thronged with trampling feet, The northern hill is ridged with graves, But night and morn the drum is beat To frighten down the "rebel knaves." The stones of King Street still are red, And yet the bloody red-coats come: I hear their pacing sentry's tread, The click of steel, the tap of drum, And over all the open green, Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den, And soon their whistling showers shall stain The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THOMAS MOORE (1) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 1 by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS VERLAINE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON BASE DETAILS by SIEGFRIED SASSOON TO THE QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON EVENING ON CALAIS BEACH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |