William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
Battle of La TrancheAngus Umphraville (b. 1797?)
G
On land and on the sea;
And may her sons e’er prize the charms
Of dear-bought Liberty!
A gallant host appear’d;
But fourteen hundred form’d their ranks,
No chance of war they fear’d.
To battle’s stormy field;
They deem’d the man of little worth
Whose mind but thought to yield.
The star-stud ensign bear;
And General Harrison commands
The men to valour dear.
All gorgeously array’d;
Inured to dangers and to wars,
Their radiant arms display’d.
A miry swamp between,
And town call’d the Moravian,
Was near distinctly seen.
And in their centre stood
Two heavy pieces, bright and high,
Menacing death and blood.
Twelve hundred Indians form;
No timid wish their fury damp,
Sons of the battle’s storm!
Bold as the tiger fierce,
To combat foe, or spoil to seize,
Or victim’s heart to pierce.
Raises the loud war-song;
He scorn’d to think of widow’s grief,
Firm were his warriors strong.
March on to the attack;
Each with his musket in his hand,
And not a man look’d back.
The British legions fire;
War drew the trigger, bared the sword,
And wounded men expire.
A thousand horsemen forward rush’d;
Our soldiers fear’d nor death nor wounds,
Full fifty foes they kill’d or crush’d.
Form’d quickly in their rear;
And to renew the charge they burn’d,
When orders they should hear.
“Fix, fix your bayonets true!”
In vain their valiant leaders call—
“Return your foes their due!”
And, to the jackets blue,
On famed La Tranche’s blood-stain’d banks,
Four hundred seventy-two
The starry flag who bare;
And they were pleas’d their lives to save,
And British blood to spare.
Bold British colonels, they—
Evans, Warburton, Baubee,
The fate of war obey.
He fled La Tranche’s plain;
A carriage bore the chief away,
Who ne’er return’d again.
In number seventy-eight;
Safe both from danger and from wounds
He fled war’s dire debate.
For with unusual skill,
Tecumseh’s warriors ours engaged,
And many wound and kill.
His brave battalion on;
Heads them to dare illustrious deeds,
Laurels by which are won.
A vigorous charge he made;
Of death’s cold cup how many drank!
How many widow’s made.
A most tremendous fire;
The shock was most severely felt—
Americans expire!
In columns firm and strong;
Dangers valour’s price enhance
And animates the throng;
At onset the attempt proved vain;
The swamp and thicket interpose,
Johnson resolved to attempt again.
Deadly exchange! were fired;
And many died of ghastly wounds
Shortly our bands respired.
Quickly both columns obey—
With Indians, Indian modes he tried,
Beat them in their own way.
The brave Kentuckians flew;
With the loud muskets’ dire discharge,
With bayonets, swords, they slew.
When such as these engage!
Dreadful the scene, the murderous jar,
When hostile armies rage!
Our warriors urge their way;
And in their rear our armour shine,
Bright as the beam of day.
To force our infantry,
The desperate Indians bend their might,
Their genius heaved a sigh.
The infantry commands,
Who, to disgrace, prefers the grave,
Bold as his sturdy bands.
Of this dreadful attack;
As spurns the wave, the ocean-rock,
The noble Shelby drove them back.
The colonel’s vest distain’d;
Blood as from fountains five did weep,
He to retire disdain’d.
Whose nostrils foam’d with fire;
Twice was he pierced with bullet shot,
Swift spurn’d the slain in ire.
And rage possess’d his soul,
Tecumseh, valiant man of blood!
Who shall his power control?
Destruction from his eyes;
His tomahawk blood-bedropt in air
Raising—he falls! he dies!
The mighty chieftain well,
With pistol ball Tecumseh slew—
And then, exhausted, fell.
One thousand Indians fight:
And Major Thompson, valour proved,
Our men commands aright.
Dismay’d the Indians fled;
Exclaiming, as they flew in fear,
“The Prophet’s chief is dead!”
By cruelty might blot
The laurels his bold arms have won?
Ah! then thou know’st him not.
Alike his pity own;
The foe subdued divides his care
To both in kindness shown.
In many a minstrel’s song,
And kisses to his lips to give
Shall many a maiden long.
In future times shall traveller come;
To mute reflection’s power to yield,
And gaze on lowly warriors’ tomb.
There the Indians numerous host;
Here the gallant Johnson’s blood,
There died the Shawanœan boast.
By La Tranche’s conscious stream:
The Muse shall wake to themes of fire,
Recall the blaze of battle’s beam.
On history’s page their names shine bright;
For them shall sound triumphal song,
Who fell in this victorious fight.
On land and on the sea;
And may her sons e’er prize the charms
Of dear-bought Liberty.