Flag of the Green Mountain Boys and the Vermont Republic (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Green Mountain Boys
Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent,
On the rugged forest ground,
And light our fire with the branches rent,
By winds from the beeches round,
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
But a wilder is at hand,
With hail of iron and rain of blood,
To sweep and scath the land.
How the dark waste rings with the voices shrill,
That startle the sleeping bird,
Tomorrow eve must the voice be still,
And the step must fall unheard.
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
In Ticonderoga’s towers,
And ere the sun rise twice again,
The towers and the lake are ours.
Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides,
Where the fireflies light the brake;
A ruddier juice the Briton hides,
In his fortress by the lake.
Build high the fire, till the panther leap
From his lofty perch in fright,
And we’ll strengthen our weary arms with sleep,
For the deeds of tomorrow night.
The Bard on the Hill 