THE NORTHERN SOLDIER (2) by PHILIP FRENEAU

IN vain you talk of fruits and flowers,
When rude December chills the plain,
And nights are cold, and long the hours,
To damp the ardour of the swain;
Who, parting from his social fire,
All comfort must forego,
And here, and there,
And every where
Pursue the invading foe.

But we must sleep in frosts and snows;
No season breaks up our campaign:
Hard as the oaks, we dare oppose
The autumnal, or the wintry reign.
Alike to us, the winds that blow
In Summer's season gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave,
And drift his ice away.

Traitors and death may cloud our scene,
The ball may pierce, the cold may kill,
And dire misfortunes intervene:
But Freedom shall be potent, still,
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who, cruel and unkind,
With slavish chain
Attempt, in vain,
Our free-born limbs to bind.

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