The fearful battle soon grows warm
Between the opposing foes--
Three hundred muskets in the field
Against three thousand bows.
And thickly flew with deadly aim
The Indian arrows then;
But where one man by an arrow fell,
The musket slaughter’d ten.
Pamunky, wounded, leaves the field,
Stout Nantaquas is slain,
And many a brave and valiant chief
Lies stretch’d upon the plain;
But still the battle fiercer grows
Till near the close of day,
And neither side the victory gains,
And neither side gives way.
And now with sword and bayonet,
Their ammunition gone,
With firmness toward the faltering foe
The colonists press on,
And hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Their deadly weapons ply--
The white man takes the ground at last,
The Indians fall or fly.