WHY come ye hither, stranger? Your mind what madness fills? In our valleys there is danger, And danger on our hills! Hear ye not the singing Of the bugle, wild and free? Full soon ye'll know the ringing Of the rifle from the tree! The rifle, the sharp rifle! In our hands it is no trifle! Ye ride a goodly steed; He may know another master: Ye forward come with speed, But ye'll learn to back much faster, When ye meet our mountain boys And their leader, Johnny Stark! Lads who make but little noise, But who always hit the mark With the rifle, the true rifle! In their hands will prove no trifle! Had ye no graves at home Across the briny water, That hither ye must come, Like bullocks to the slaughter? If we the work must do, Why, the sooner 't is begun, If flint and trigger hold but true, The quicker 't will be done By the rifle, the good rifle! In our hands it is no trifle! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WALKING MAN OF RODIN by CARL SANDBURG SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A CHILD by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SPRING, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS' LOVE LETTERS by OSCAR WILDE A SUMMER SUMMARY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS EPIGRAM by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS |