A Nation Born

Obliv’ous ants march ‘round dry stalks of hay,
What momentar’ly hide me from my foe,
We patr’ots hearing distant horses neigh,
Await the beat of drum and fifer’s blow,

Calm wind doth bear sweet smell of sulf’rous smoke,
While blackened sweat doth fall on bloodied soil,
Grim orders from the rear, though hushly spok’t,
Bring tension ‘mongst the troops as tight’ning coil,

When bugle’s blast beats roar of canon fire,
Ten thousand men doth rise with rebel yell,
Who charge through rain of lead in seething ire,
Intent to show vile e-ne-mies to Hell,

Some men do fly; some draw their final breath,
Some men do cry: ‘Tis Liberty or Death!

​- Scott Alexander McKenzie

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