While there, with toil and watching worn,
The Island warriors wait the morn,
And think the hours too slow;
Hark!--on the midnight breezes borne
Sounds from the vale below!
What sounds? No gleam of arms they see,
Yet still they hear--What may it be?
It is, it is the foe!
From every hand and heart and head--
As quick was never lightning sped--
Weakness and weariness are fled;
And down the mountain steeps,
Along the vale, and through the shade,
With ball and bayonet and blade,
They seek the foe who dares invade
The watch that England keeps.
Nor do the dauntless sons of France
Idly await the hot advance:--
As active and as brave
Thrice rush they on, and thrice their shock
Rebounding breaks, as from the rock
Is dash’d the wintry wave.