“—ON OUR CHIEFTAIN SPEEDED, RALLIED QUICK THE FLEEING FORCES.” [p. [105]

THE BOY’S BOOK
OF
BATTLE-LYRICS

A COLLECTION OF VERSES ILLUSTRATING SOME NOTABLE EVENTS IN THE
HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, FROM THE COLONIAL
PERIOD TO THE OUTBREAK OF THE SECTIONAL WAR

BY

THOS. DUNN ENGLISH, M.D., LL.D.

WITH HISTORICAL NOTES
AND NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS OF PERSONS, SCENES, AND PLACES

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1885

Copyright, 1885, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

TO

ADOLPH SCHALK, Esq.

AS A RECOGNITION OF MANY YEARS OF UNBROKEN FRIENDSHIP, AND AS A TOKEN
OF ESTEEM FOR HIS MANLINESS AND WORTH

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR

PREFACE.

During the last twenty-five years my work in verse has been mainly confined to illustrating the history of the United States, with occasional studies of local life and character. Of this, judging by notices of the press, and their appearance in compilations of a patriotic or martial nature, the metrical narratives of battles seem to have been most approved; and it occurred to me that a volume embracing my productions in that line of literary labor might meet with popular favor. My first intention was to take up every notable event, so that the book might be a complete metrical history, and I prepared partly the matter for the purpose, including the capture of the Serapis and the achievements of Old Ironsides. But I found the volume would be inconveniently large, and I abandoned my plan reluctantly.

The historical sketches prefixed in the proper places will be found full, unless the details are faithfully given in the text, when the introductions are purposely made meagre. In either case they will be found to be accurate, the verses being, as I have styled them, “metrical narratives” rather than poems. In that form, I trust, they more readily impress on the mind of the reader a sense of the patriotism and courage of our forefathers, and give a notion of the nature of the struggle by which these States emerged from a dependent condition to take high rank among the peoples of the world. The story of each event being told in the first person, the style and language are intentionally marked by the peculiarities of the imaginary narrator. And in this connection it will be observed that, because of the nearness of the conflict, the battles of the late sectional war have been avoided, and the two incidents of that period touched on at the close are personal, and not likely to offend even the most sensitive.

T. D. E.

Newark, N. J., July 30, 1885.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE BOY’S
BOOK OF BATTLE LYRICS.

DE SOTO’S EXPEDITION.

HERNANDO DE SOTO.

Hernando de Soto was of good Spanish family, and started early upon a career of adventure. He was with Francisco Pizarro, and took a prominent part in the conquest of Peru. Some account of his actions while with the Pizarros will be found in Helps’s “Spanish Conquest in America.” He particularly distinguished himself in the battle which resulted in the conquest of Cuzco, and desired to be the lieutenant of Almagro in the invasion of Chili; but in this he was disappointed. Returning to Spain with much wealth, he married into the Bobadilla family, and became a favorite with the king. Here he conceived the notion of conquering Florida, which he believed to abound in gold and precious stones. Offering to do this at his own expense, the king gave him permission, and at the same time appointed him governor of Cuba. De Soto set sail from Spain in April, 1538, but remained in Cuba some time fitting out his expedition, which did not arrive at Florida until the following year, when it landed at Tampa Bay. His force consisted of twelve hundred men, with four hundred horses, and he took with him a number of domestic animals. In quest of gold, he penetrated the territory now known as the States of Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and Mississippi, finally striking the Mississippi River, which he called the Rio Grande, at or near the Lower Chickasaw Bluffs. He found the inhabitants to be quite unlike the Peruvians. He met with a fierce resistance from the natives, and by severe hardships and bloody conflicts found his army very much reduced in numbers. In 1542 De Soto died of a fever. To prevent the mutilation of his body, it was enclosed in a coffin hollowed from the trunk of a tree, and sunk at midnight in the great river. The command then devolved on Moscoso, who escaped with his comrades by way of the river, and reached Mexico in a miserable condition.

It was during this raid, on the 18th of October, 1539, that the battle with the Mobilians was fought. The incidents, so far as they have been gathered from all sources, are faithfully given in the ballad, with one exception. The speech of Tuscaloosa was in the shape of a message, and was delivered by one of his men after the chief had escaped and found refuge in his “palace,” which was probably a hut more commodious than the others in the town. The Spaniards, in spite of their superiority of weapons, had much the worst of the affair at one time, and might have been disastrously defeated but for the opportune arrival of Moscoso with the reserve of four hundred fresh men. After that the battle changed to a mere massacre.

The “singing women” described in the text must have been picked Amazons, for the women in general, and children, had been previously sent to a place of refuge by the Mobilians in anticipation of a fight. The slaughter of the poorly armed natives was very great, but the invaders suffered severely. Not only were eighty-two killed, including the nephew and nephew-in-law of the Adelantado (as De Soto was styled), but none of the Spaniards escaped severe wounds. To add to their sufferings, the medicines and surgical appliances, having been placed in the town previous to the breaking out of the conflict, were burned, and all the surgeons but one were killed. De Soto himself received an arrow in his thigh. The missile was not extracted until after the battle, and he was forced to continue the fight standing in his stirrups.

The place of the battle is supposed to be what is now known as Choctaw Bluff, in Clarke County, Alabama.

THE FALL OF MAUBILA.

Hearken the stirring story

The soldier has to tell,

Of fierce and bloody battle,

Contested long and well,

Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,

Before our forces fell.

Now many years have circled

Since that October day,

When proudly to Maubila

De Soto took his way,

With men-at-arms and cavaliers

In terrible array.

Oh, never sight more goodly

In any land was seen;

And never better soldiers

Than those he led have been,

More prompt to handle arquebus,

Or wield their sabres keen.

The sun was at meridian,

His hottest rays fell down

Alike on soldier’s corselet

And on the friar’s gown;

The breeze was hushed as on we rode

Right proudly to the town.

First came the bold De Soto,

In all his manly pride,

The gallant Don Diego,

His nephew, by his side;

A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,

Interpreter and guide.

Baltasar de Gallegos,

Impetuous, fierce, and hot;

Francisco de Figarro,

Since by an arrow shot;

And slender Juan de Guzman, who

In battle faltered not.

Luis Bravo de Xeres,

That gallant cavalier;

Alonzo de Cormono,

Whose spirit knew no fear;

The Marquis of Astorga, and

Vasquez, the cannoneer.

Andres de Vasconcellos,

Juan Coles, young and fair,

Roma de Cardenoso,

Him of the yellow hair—

Rode gallant in their bravery,

Straight to the public square.

And there, in sombre garments,

Were monks of Cuba four,

Fray Juan de Gallegos,

And other priests a score,

Who sacramental bread and wine

And holy relics bore.

And next eight hundred soldiers

In closest order come,

Some with Biscayan lances,

With arquebuses some,

Timing their tread to martial notes

Of trump and fife and drum.

Loud sang the gay Mobilians,

Light danced their daughters brown;

Sweet sounded pleasant music

Through all the swarming town;

But ’mid the joy one sullen brow

Was lowering with a frown.

The haughty Tuscaloosa,

The sovereign of the land,

With moody face, and thoughtful,

Rode at our chief’s right hand,

And cast from time to time a glance

Of hatred at the band.

And when that gay procession

Made halt to take a rest,

And eagerly the people

To see the strangers prest,

The frowning King, in wrathful tones,

De Soto thus addressed:

“To bonds and to dishonor

By faithless friends trepanned,

For days beside you, Spaniard,

The ruler of the land

Has ridden as a prisoner,

Subject to your command.

“He was not born the fetters

Of baser men to wear,

And tells you this, De Soto,

Hard though it be to bear—

Let those beware the panther’s rage

Who follow to his lair.

“Back to your isle of Cuba!

Slink to your den again,

And tell your robber sovereign,

The mighty lord of Spain,

Whoso would strive this land to win

Shall find his efforts vain.

“And, save it be your purpose

Within my realm to die,

Let not your forces linger

Our deadly anger nigh,

Lest food for vultures and for wolves

Your mangled forms should lie.”

Then, spurning courtly offers,

He left our chieftain’s side,

And crossing the enclosure

With quick and lengthened stride,

He passed within his palace gates,

And there our wrath defied.

Now came up Charamilla,

Who led our troop of spies,

And said unto our captain,

With tones that showed surprise,

“A mighty force within the town,

In wait to crush us, lies.

“The babes and elder women

Were sent at break of day

Into the forest yonder,

Five leagues or more away;

While in yon huts ten thousand men

Wait eager for the fray.”

“What say ye now, my comrades?”

De Soto asked his men;

“Shall we, before these traitors,

Go backward, baffled, then;

Or, sword in hand, attack the foe

Who crouches in his den?”

Before their loud responses

Had died upon the ear,

A savage stood before them,

Who said, in accents clear,

“Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!

Assassin Spaniards, hear!

“No longer shall our sovereign,

Born noble, great, and free,

Be led beside your master,

A shameful sight to see,

While weapons here to strike you down,

Or hands to grasp them be.”

As spoke the brawny savage

Full wroth our comrades grew—

Baltasar de Gallegos

His heavy weapon drew,

And dealt the boaster such a stroke

As clave his body through.

Then rushed the swart Mobilians

Like hornets from their nest;

Against our bristling lances

Was bared each savage breast;

With arrow-head and club and stone,

Upon our band they prest.

“Retreat in steady order!

But slay them as ye go!”

Exclaimed the brave De Soto,

And with each word a blow

That sent a savage soul to doom

He dealt upon the foe.

“Strike well who would our honor

From spot or tarnish save!

Strike down the haughty Pagan,

The infidel and slave!

Saint Mary Mother sits above,

And smiles upon the brave.

“Strike! all my gallant comrades!

Strike! gentlemen of Spain!

Upon the traitor wretches

Your deadly anger rain,

Or never to your native land

Return in pride again!”

Then hosts of angry foemen

We fiercely held at bay,

Through living walls of Pagans

We cut our bloody way;

And though by thousands round they swarmed,

We kept our firm array.

At length they feared to follow;

We stood upon the plain,

And dressed our shattered columns;

When, slacking bridle rein,

De Soto, wounded as he was,

Led to the charge again.

For now our gallant horsemen

Their steeds again had found,

That had been fastly tethered

Unto the trees around,

Though some of these, by arrows slain,

Lay stretched upon the ground.

And as the riders mounted,

The foe, in joyous tones,

Gave vent to shouts of triumph,

And hurled a shower of stones;

But soon the shouts were changed to wails,

The cries of joy to moans.

Down on the scared Mobilians

The furious rush was led;

Down fell the howling victims

Beneath the horses’ tread;

The angered chargers trod alike

On dying and on dead.

Back to the wooden ramparts,

With cut and thrust and blow,

We drove the panting savage,

The very walls below,

Till those above upon our heads

Huge rocks began to throw.

Whenever we retreated

The swarming foemen came—

Their wild and matchless courage

Put even ours to shame—

Rushing upon our lances’ points,

And arquebuses’ flame.

Three weary hours we fought them,

And often each gave way;

Three weary hours, uncertain

The fortune of the day;

And ever where they fiercest fought

De Soto led the fray.

Baltasar de Gallegos

Right well displayed his might;

His sword fell ever fatal,

Death rode its flash of light;

And where his horse’s head was turned

The foe gave way in fright.

At length before our daring

The Pagans had to yield,

And in their stout enclosure

They sought to find a shield,

And left us, wearied with our toil,

The masters of the field.

Now worn and spent and weary,

Our force was scattered round,

Some seeking for their comrades,

Some seated on the ground,

When sudden fell upon our ears

A single trumpet’s sound.

“Up! ready make for storming!”

That speaks Moscoso near;

He comes with stainless sabre,

He comes with spotless spear;

But stains of blood and spots of gore

Await his weapons here.

Soon, formed in four divisions,

Around the order goes—

“To front with battle-axes!

No moment for repose.

At signal of an arquebus,

Rain on the gates your blows.”

Not long that fearful crashing,

The gates in splinters fall;

And some, though sorely wounded,

Climb o’er the crowded wall;

No rampart’s height can keep them back,

No danger can appall.

Then redly rained the carnage—

None asked for quarter there;

Men fought with all the fury

Born of a wild despair;

And shrieks and groans and yells of hate

Were mingled in the air.

Four times they backward beat us,

Four times our force returned;

We quenched in bloody torrents

The fire that in us burned;