William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
An Account of the Battle
K
While she attempts to tell
Of poor Wyoming’s overthrow,
By savage hands that fell.
Whom Butler there did lead,
Supported by a barbarous crew
Of the fierce savage breed.
And several days it held;
While many a brave and valiant man
Lay slaughter’d on the field.
The third day of July,
Three hundred strong, they march’d along,
The fate of war to try.
Is much too small a band
To meet eight hundred men complete,
And make a glorious stand;
Our enemies to meet,
Too far indeed did Butler lead,
To keep a safe retreat.
They bravely charged the foe;
And they with ire return’d the fire,
Which proved our overthrow.
But ere they were aware
They were encompass’d all around,
Which proved a fatal snare.
But all is now in vain;
The little host, by far the most,
Was by these Indians slain.
O! hear, indulgent Heaven;
Hard to relate, the dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given.
They seek for some retreat,
Here and there, they know not where,
Till awful death they meet.
“Mercy,” is all their cry;
“Our souls prepare thy grace to share,
We instantly must die.”
Sagacious to get clear;
In vain to fly, the foe so nigh,
The front, the flank, and rear.
Methinks their words were these:
“You cursed, rebel, Yankee race,
With this your Congress please?
We hold them in our hands;
We all agree to set them free
By dashing out their brains.
We’ll raise your honours higher;
Pray turn your eyes where you must lie,
In yonder burning fire.”
Too dreadful ’tis to tell;
Where they must fry and burn and die,
While cursed Indians yell.
The youth and hoary head
Were by those monsters murder’d there,
And number’d with the dead.
His awful state condole;
“O! that my tender parents knew
The agony of my soul.
Or heal my dreadful fear;
I see the tomahawk and knife
And the more glittering spear.
Upon my parent’s knee,
I little thought I should be here
In this sad misery.
I hoped for riches there;
Alas! these dreams are fled away,
And I shall be no more.
Freed from this savage race:
Your hearts would ache and nearly break
If you could know my case.
I must resign my breath;
I now must die, and here must lie
In the cold arms of death.
I see the bloody knife!
The Lord have mercy on my soul;—
I yield to thee my life.”