Victory Woods, Or The Battle Of Saratoga Poem by David Welch

That day in the October sun,
the British, they marched along,
across Master Barber's wheat field,
a force in red, quite strong.
The drummer drummed, fifers they played,
we heard their martial song,
and we leapt out to meet out foes,
to break that scarlet throng,
when the British marched along.

From our guns, hot fire leapt,
trumpeting the fray.
The lobsterbacks, down they went,
not long here cold they stay.
Another volley and they broke,
then turned to run away.
We pushed at them in hot pursuit,
our hearts intent to slay,
our guns trumpeting the fray.

They ran headlong that afternoon
to earthworks and redoubts,
denying us the pleasure
of a quick and easy rout.
We charged the wall repeatedly,
to club and kill those louts.
They repulsed us so many times,
they knew how to build stout,
those earthworks and redoubts.

Then a general a cabin saw,
his name shall not be said,
for crimes committed later on
that nearly cost us our heads.
He saw a weak-point in the line,
his troops that way did tread,
a strike to turn the tide that day
he left those British dead,
but his name will not be said!

The line it broke, the British ran,
the minutemen gave chase.
Past their camp, they took the plunder,
seizing those lost in haste.
Redcoats ran to Old Saratoga,
a frightful, desperate race.
They settled in to lick their wounds,
hoping hard to hold that place,
but the minutemen gave chase.

But John Bull face an arduous task,
oblivion did Burgoyne see.
Outnumbered by a tough, game foe
who surrounded everything.
His Hessians broken, bloody, sore,
sheltered only by some trees,
he came out and laid down his sword
in those woods of victory.
In a wood called victory.