Chapter II

Never tongue may tell the horror
Of that dark November day,
When through startled Cherry Valley
Walter Butler took his way—

Walter Butler and his Tories,
With the savage Brant in train,
Marking every rod of progress
By the bodies of the slain.

Walter Butler! cruel panther,
Lapping tongue in human gore;
Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk,
Had of truth and pity more.

His the will to save the helpless
From the tomahawk and ball,
Had not you with rage forbade him,
Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!”

Even boyhood’s old companions,
Comrades of your later days,
Friends who, seeing not your vices,
Gave your scanty virtues praise—

None of these could gain your mercy
On that long-remembered day;
For the stranger, friend or foeman,
Came one doom relentless—“Slay!”

Swiftly at your word the hatchet
Crashed into the quivering brain,
And the swarthy fiends in fury
Tore the scalp-skins from the slain.

Gray-haired elders, whom your father
Knew as friends in days of yore,
You had joy to see their corses
Welter in their oozing gore.

Mothers lying mangled, dying,
In their throes made deeper moans
As they saw the skulls of infants
Shattered on the ruthless stones.

These, and shrieks of fleeing maidens,
Speechless children’s pleading tears,
And the yelling of the savage,
Made sweet music to your ears.

Bloody Walter Butler! owning
Brain of fire and heart of stone,
Twenty deaths, could you endure them,
Would not for these deeds atone.

Nevermore may come your victims
To the pleasant earth again—
Never hear the blessed tidings—
“Walter Butler has been slain!”