Martha Wilson of Jersey, moving with courtly grace;
Deborah Samson, fighting side by side with the men;

Frances Allen, the Tory, choosing the better part,

Led by Ethan, the daring, to follow his glorious way; Elizabeth Zane of Wheeling, timid, yet brave of heart,

Bearing her burden of powder through smoke and flame of the fray!

Each, on the endless list, through length and breadth of the land, Winning her deathless place on the golden scroll of time,

Fair as in old Greek days the women of Sparta stand,

Linked with the heroes' fame and sharing their deeds sublime.

Plain of speech and of dress, as fitted their age and place,

Meet companions for men of sterner creed and fame;

Yet knowing the worth of a word, and fair with the old-time grace, That perfumes like breath of a flower the page that holds their

name.

Honor they taught, and right, and noble courage of truth,
Strength to suffer and bear in holy liberty's need;
Framing through turbulent years and fiery season of youth,
Soul for the valor of thought, hand for the valor of deed.

Well that with praise of the brave, song of their triumph should blend!

Well that in joy of the land fame of their glory find part!

For theirs is the tone of the chord that holds its full strength to the end,

When music that dies on the ear still lingers and sings in the heart.

Letter and word may die, but still the spirit survives,

Rounding in ages unborn each frail, distorted plan;

And fittest survival is that when souls of mothers and wives
Bloom in immortal deeds through life of child and of man.

"Oh, the British! an' there ain't a soul to home but me an' you. Job's gone courtin', Noah's a-fishin', all the neighbors be afar; Peek; they're two great boat-loads rowin' for our flour-ships at the

bar.

When they've took 'em, what's to hender? don't you s'pose they'll come right down,

Pike an' gun an' blood an' murder here, an' rob an' burn the town?"

“No, I don't, not ef I'm spared-an' don't you have a chicken

heart.

Le' me think, an' then I'll tell ye; then we both must play our

part.

Becky, all we've ever got ter mind is, jest ter do our best;

When that's done, we never need ter fear ter leave ter God the rest.
Nobody can't die but once; an' ef our own turn comes to-day,
Let it find us at our dooty, an' then find us when it may.

Though their swellin' hearts be mighty-though each comes like ten times ten

Say your prayers, an' jest remember Englishmen ain't naught but

men.

I'll run round an' lock the house up, an' you scamper for your life
Up the garret stairs, an' fetch us, to the barn, the drum an' fife,
Make believe we're the milishy comin'. Girls be good as boys
For some things-folks needn't tell me-jest as good ter make a
noise."

Becky scampers. Abby makes fast door and window breathlessly,
In her hurry puts the kitten in her pocket with the key,
Calls the dog, and drives the cow in from her grazing in the croft
To her stall, and, dragging Becky, scrambles up into the loft,
Opens wide the great barn window, seizes on her father's drum,
Cis, "You keep the fife, dear Becky-that's right-sound like
kingdom come!

ink you've got the trump that Gideon blew against the heathen host,

When the Lord's sword conquered Midian, an' their princes' heads were lost.

Won't the British lose their heads, too? Mebbe, ef we keep our

own."

While she chatters, she is drumming, till the grumbling roof doth groan.

"Yankee Doodle," "Hail, Columbia," pealed with many a deafening bout;

Like a cherub's on a tombstone, Becky's dimpled cheeks puffed out,
Abby's hazel eyes flashed lightning, as her rapid stick she plied,
Marching still, and counter-marching, to and fro, from side to side-
O'er the soft gray hills and valleys of the clover-scented hay,
Sounding like an army coming up and down from far away,
Now through rich brown shadows went they-lively, lovely Yankee
girls-

Now an elm let stealthy sunlight in on fair and chestnut curls.
Fifing, drumming, panting, stumbling, half in fear and half in fun,
When they dared to reconnoitre, then they saw the British run.
"Now "The Rogue's March,' little sister-louder, louder! let us
play

One more pooty piece o' music jest ter speed 'em on their way." When the sunset's gold and amber, wrought upon the cobwebbed gloom

Of the straw-hung old barn-chamber, made it seem a tapestried

room,

And their townsmen came, each rafter o'er each little merry head, Rang with peals of girlish laughter as the pair looked down and said:

"Brother, father, uncle, welcome; but a little late you've come! Now the flour-ships would be taken but for us, an' fife an' drum.” Straight men knew the situation, ran the rescued ships to see, Thronged the barnyard then, and, shouting, gave the damsels 66 three times three!"

Wild with mirth; and ever after, oft as general training-day Called the gallant lads of Scituate from the scythe and forge away, 'Neath the farmhouse' sunset windows, fife and drum were duly played

To those gallant maids of Scituate, in memorial serenade.

CAPTAIN MOLLY AT MONMOUTH.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

[At the opening of the campaign in 1778, Gen. William Howe went to England, and Gen. Sir Henry Clinton succeeded him as commander-inchief. It was determined by the British to concentrate their forces in the city of New York, and for this purpose the royal army left Philadelphia in June and crossed the Delaware. Gen. Washington, penetrating their design, attempted to interrupt their progress. The two armies met on the 28th of June, near Monmouth Court House, N. J. The British troops were defeated and remained inactive during the summer.]

N the bloody field of Monmouth flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne;

Fiercely roared the tide of battle, thick the sward was heaped with

slain.

Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian horse and grenadier,
In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, stood an Irish cannoneer.

Loudly roared his iron cannon, mingling ever in the strife,
And beside him, firm and daring, stood his faithful Irish wife;
Of her bold contempt of danger, Greene and Lee's brigade could tell,
Every one knew "Captain Molly," and the army loved her well.

Surged the roar of battle round them, swiftly flew the iron hail; Forward dashed a thousand bayonets that lone battery to assail; From the foeman's foremost columns swept a furious fusilade, Mowing down the massed battalions in the ranks of Greene's brigade.

Fast and faster worked the gunner, soiled with powder, blood, and dust;

English bayonets shone before him, shot and shell around him

burst;

Still he fought with reckless daring, stood and manned her long and well,

Till at last the gallant fellow dead beside his cannon fell.

With a bitter cry of sorrow, and a dark and angry frown, Looked that band of gallant patriots at their gunner stricken down. "Fall back, comrades! It is folly thus to strive against the foe." "No, not so!" cried Irish Molly, “we can strike another blow!"

Quickly leaped she to the cannon in her fallen husband's place,
Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, fired it in the foeman's face.
Flashed another ringing volley, roared another from the gun;
"Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, "for the flag of Washington!"

Greene's brigade, though shorn and shattered, slain and bleeding half their men,

When they heard that Irish slogan, turned and charged the foe again;

Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, to the front they forward wheel, And before their rushing onset Clinton's English columns reel.

Still the cannon's voice in anger rolled and rattled o'er the plain, Till there lay in swarms around it mangled heaps of Hessian slain. "Forward! charge them with the bayonet!" 'twas the voice of Washington;

And there burst a fiery greeting from the Irish woman's gun.