Where streams of blood in crimson torrents rolled,--
Where death smote down alike the young and old;
And where the thickest poured the deadly shot,
The gallant WOLFE with daring valor fought.

The dead and dying in his pathway lie,
Before him ranks divide and squadrons fly;
With stalwart arm, and with unerring aim,
He adds new glories to his former fame,
Reaps the reward of all his toil: for now
Fresh laurels twine around his youthful brow.
But what avail they? for the fatal dart
Of death has lodged within that hoping heart!
The lofty head that wore the waving crest,
Now sadly droops upon the bleeding breast;
That mighty arm, upraised in power and pride,
Falls feebly down, and casts its sword aside;
The laurel wreath entwines that brow in vain,
For, lo! the hero lies among the slain!

The French fought long with courage and with skill;
With iron arms and with an iron will
Rushed bravely forward 'mid the battle's din,
Resolved to die, or else the victory win;
Like soldiers true, fought firmly and fought well,
And at their post like faithful soldiers fell.

Deeper and deeper now the conflict grows;
Despair nerves these, and victory flushes those.
'Tis the last struggle; hark! "They fly! they fly!"