Meanwhile the British manoeuvr’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle,
But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle.

We fought the fight in detachments,
Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was
    against us,
Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back
    to the works on this hill,
Till we turn’d menacing here, and then he left us.

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand
    strong,
Few return’d, nearly all remain in Brooklyn.

That and here my General’s first battle,
No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude
    with applause,
Nobody clapp’d hands here then.

But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain,
Wearied that night we lay foil’d and sullen,
While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord off against us encamp’d,
Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over
    their victory.

So dull and damp and another day,
But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing,
Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my
    General retreated.

I saw him at the river-side,
Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation;
My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over,
And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for
    the last time.

Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom,
Many no doubt thought of capitulation.

But when my General pass’d me,
As he stood in his boat and look’d toward the coming sun,
I saw something different from capitulation.

[Terminus]
Enough, the Centenarian’s story ends,
The two, the past and present, have interchanged,
I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking.

And is this the ground Washington trod? 
And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d,
As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs?

I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward,
I must preserve that look as it beam’d on you rivers of Brooklyn.

See—­as the annual round returns the phantoms return,
It is the 27th of August and the British have landed,
The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke
    Washington’s face,
The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept
    the enemy,
They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them,
Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag,
Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds. 
In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears.

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn!  I perceive you are more valuable
    than your owners supposed;
In the midst of you stands an encampment very old,
Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade.