The New Yankee Doodle / 187 “Now who will cross that stream of death, The rifle-pits to try, sir?” Cried Hendershott, the drummer-boy, “ I'm ready, though I die, sir.” Then leaped into a boat.—“My lad, Give way to older hands, sir.” The boy hung on behind the boat, And was the first to land, sir. Slow, dreadful work; at last the stream Is crossed,10 the foe in sight, sir, Secure beyond the sullen town,11 Entrenched upon the heights, sir. Now, up the slopes, where cannon deal Out canister and grape, Good heavens! from such a storm of fire Can anything escape? They stagger back, they charge again, They waver, reel and fall— Recharge, until the carnage might The stoutest heart appall. All day they press, as if their death Were emulous to meet; But never foe at Malvern Hill Won such a dread defeat. Night fell, the battered army lay, Some sunk in dreamless sleep; But eyes there were that o’er that day Hot bitter tears did weep. Twelve thousand men, who in the morn, Were glad in buoyant life, Now “missing”—lying mangled—torn, Or martyred in the strife. How sped the hours on yonder slopes? Did any dream of home, To flickering, fluttering, fainting hearts, Did any succor come?

DOI link for The New Yankee Doodle / 187 “Now who will cross that stream of death, The rifle-pits to try, sir?” Cried Hendershott, the drummer-boy, “ I'm ready, though I die, sir.” Then leaped into a boat.—“My lad, Give way to older hands, sir.” The boy hung on behind the boat, And was the first to land, sir. Slow, dreadful work; at last the stream Is crossed,10 the foe in sight, sir, Secure beyond the sullen town,11 Entrenched upon the heights, sir. Now, up the slopes, where cannon deal Out canister and grape, Good heavens! from such a storm of fire Can anything escape? They stagger back, they charge again, They waver, reel and fall— Recharge, until the carnage might The stoutest heart appall. All day they press, as if their death Were emulous to meet; But never foe at Malvern Hill Won such a dread defeat. Night fell, the battered army lay, Some sunk in dreamless sleep; But eyes there were that o’er that day Hot bitter tears did weep. Twelve thousand men, who in the morn, Were glad in buoyant life, Now “missing”—lying mangled—torn, Or martyred in the strife. How sped the hours on yonder slopes? Did any dream of home, To flickering, fluttering, fainting hearts, Did any succor come?

The New Yankee Doodle / 187 “Now who will cross that stream of death, The rifle-pits to try, sir?” Cried Hendershott, the drummer-boy, “ I'm ready, though I die, sir.” Then leaped into a boat.—“My lad, Give way to older hands, sir.” The boy hung on behind the boat, And was the first to land, sir. Slow, dreadful work; at last the stream Is crossed,10 the foe in sight, sir, Secure beyond the sullen town,11 Entrenched upon the heights, sir. Now, up the slopes, where cannon deal Out canister and grape, Good heavens! from such a storm of fire Can anything escape? They stagger back, they charge again, They waver, reel and fall— Recharge, until the carnage might The stoutest heart appall. All day they press, as if their death Were emulous to meet; But never foe at Malvern Hill Won such a dread defeat. Night fell, the battered army lay, Some sunk in dreamless sleep; But eyes there were that o’er that day Hot bitter tears did weep. Twelve thousand men, who in the morn, Were glad in buoyant life, Now “missing”—lying mangled—torn, Or martyred in the strife. How sped the hours on yonder slopes? Did any dream of home, To flickering, fluttering, fainting hearts, Did any succor come?