THE streets are thronged with trampling feet, The northern hill is ridged with graves, But night and morn the drum is beat To frighten down the "rebel knaves." The stones of King Street still are red, And yet the bloody red-coats come: I hear their pacing sentry's tread, The click of steel, the tap of drum, And over all the open green, Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den, And soon their whistling showers shall stain The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE QUESTION ANSWER'D by WILLIAM BLAKE AFTER WINTER by STERLING ALLEN BROWN THE HEART OF THE TREE by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER EPITAPH ON HIMSELF by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE OWL CRITIC by JAMES THOMAS FIELDS ALMS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE DISMANTLED SHIP by WALT WHITMAN TO A LADY TO ANSWER DIRECTLY WITH YEA OR NAY by THOMAS WYATT |