Chapter V

Where the Canada so swiftly
Through the mountain gorges flows,
Walter Butler found the mercy
He had dealt to hapless foes.

He had fought that day with Willet,
And the battle had been lost,
For our men the past remembered,
To the ruthless Tories’ cost.

No one there would seek for quarter,
No one mercy would bestow;
From the wrath that swept around them,
Flight alone could save the foe.

Butler, baffled, fled the combat
On his charger tried and good,
Through the glen and o’er the valley,
Through the gap within the wood.

Rode he steadily and swiftly,
While a swart and angry pack
Of the hound-like, wild Oneidas
Yelped in anger on his track.

On the Canada was rushing,
Tempest-swollen, from the hills,
Maddened with the furious urging
Of a hundred surging rills.

But he heeded not its raging;
At the danger fear was lost.
In he spurred his panting charger,
And the foaming river crossed.

On its bank a moment halting,
To the foes upon his track
Words and motions of defiance
Butler hurled, exulting, back.

On his hot and spent pursuers
Thus his words of scorning fell:
“He who rides with Walter Butler
Sits a steed that carries well.

“In the battle and the foray
Human blood shall fall like rain,
Ere you carry round the tidings—
‘Walter Butler has been slain!’”