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Few were the hero men
Who Freedom's chief surrounded,
When, on Niagara's plain,
The battle-trumpet sounded;
But one and all that trumpet call
In dauntless line united;
The sire and son, with sword and gun,
In Freedom's cause were plighted.

Firm, 'mid the thunder shock
Of Britain's vet'rans hoary,
Moved they like mountain rock,
To combat and to glory;
And sire and son, as spent each gun --
With Freedom's spirit burning --
Met, hand to hand, the British band,
The British bay'nets turning!

Dark rose the battle cloud
O'er Freedom's banners glancing --
Darkest where Britain proud
Met Freedom's Chief advancing;


On Lundy's lane, blood fell like rain,
From hero hearts outpouring,
And Freedom's Son, who led them on,
Fell 'mid the battle's roaring.

Night o'er Niagara's field,
With sable plume is stealing;
Dead on his battle shield,
No hero's face revealing;
One gory bed, the victors dead,
And vanquished foemen keeping,
While weary-worn, 'neath banners torn,
The living, sound are sleeping.

God rest the hero dead,
In Freedom's battle falling;
God bless the Chief who led,
At Freedom's trumpet-calling;
And while on high our flag shall fly,
With Freedom's stars upon it,
We'll ne'er forget Niag'ra's field,
Nor WINFIELD SCOTT who won it!