"Ye are my prisoners, sirs! March on!" she said;
Then dropped her plants and pointing out to them the way,
She drove them quickly on, as she had oft ahead
Driven the kine across the fields, at set of day;
And they, "King George's own," without a word obeyed.
Over the fields so green she marched her captive band,
Her dark eyes flashing still, her proud heart beating high
At thought of England's outrage on her native land!
For women were true patriots in the days gone by,
And scorned the foreign yoke, the proud oppressor's hand.
And thus this rustic dame her captives safe did bring
Unto a neighbor's house; and, speaking fearless then,
In words whose every tone with woman's scorn did ring,
She said unto King George's brave and stalwart men
"Go, tell the story of your capture to your King!
"He cannot crush our rights beneath his royal hand
With dastards such as you! And ere this war be done
We'll teach old England's boasting red-coat band,
We're not a race of slaves! From mother, sire, to son,
There's not a coward breathes in all our native land!"
Thus Mother Batherick's fearless deed was done;
Long will the tale be told in famed historic page,
How, in this first great victory by freemen won,
A dame with furrowed brow and tresses white with age,
Captured the grenadiers at famous Lexington.