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Address of

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4 Judge Henry A. Grady

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fo Moore’s Creek Battle

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Kk August 13, 1925
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With Original Poem, Entitled

“MARY SLOCUMB'S RIDE.”

 

 
Address of

Judge Henry A. Grady

--at--

Moore’s Creek Battle
Ground

August 13, 1925

With Original Poem, Entitled

“MARY SLOCUMB'S RIDE.”
 

Address at Moore’s Creek Battleground

AUGUST 13th, 1925.

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Among those sentiments which operate most potently upon the human
heart, and which are most honorable to the human character, are those
of veneration for our ancestors and love for those who are to come after
us. These sentiments form the connecting links between the past, the
present, and the future. Respect for one’s ancestors excites in the breast
of the normal man a personal interest in their history, on attachment to
their characters, and a pardonable pride in their manly virtues.

The voice of history has not in all of its compass a single note that
does not beat in unison with these natural emotions. The barbarians of
old had implanted in their bosoms a love of country and of home that
equalled, if it did not exceed, that of the most polished statesman of
modern times. This sentiment was the fountain head of Athenian cul-
ture; it gave to Rome its ascendency over the uttermost parts of the
earth; and it burned fiercely in the breast of the Jew when he threw
off the bondage of Egypt, and returned to the home of his fathers in the
Promised Land.

It has always been natural for man to look to his ancestors for in-
spiration, to his contemporaries for execution, and to his posterity for
the enjoyment of every laudable and honorable undertaking. Such sen-
timents are not only wise and wholesome; they are virtuous, and
should be inculcated in the breast of every American citizen. Their cul-
tivation is not merely perfunctory and a thing of pleasure; it is a duty
we owe to our posterity and to the race to which we belong.

Edmund Burke, the most notable Irisman of the eighteenth Century,
speaking of the decadence in French pride, declared that no people can
look forward with confidence to posterity, who do not look backward with
pride to their ancestors. ,

John Ruskin, the English philosopher and rhetorician, expressed a
similiar thought when he wrote that “A Land Without Ruins is a Land
Without Memories; and a Land Without Memories is a Land Without
Patriotism.” And Sir Walter Scott has poured out to a delighted world
the purest and noblest sentiments of adoration for one’s progenitors—
both in song and in story.

Burke was dreaming of Finn, the King; and of Ossian, his poet son;
of Brian Boru. the warrior of Munster, and of that vast array of legen-
dary heroes, whose exploits have heen the admiration of every Irishman

_—legendary, indeed; but as truly historical as Homer's Fall of Troy, or
the vague wanderings of l!lysses.

Ruskin had read of Arthur the King, and his Table Round; of Lance-
lot and Guinevere, of Percival and the Quest of the Holy Grail. Thru

 

i

the mixed blood of countless generations he claimed kin with Canute
the Dane, with Alfred the Saxon, and with William the Norman. The
healing hand of Time had blotted out their trunsgressions, and !) his
British mind they represented all that was clean, noble and 0d.

Sir Walter Seott had sat beside his grandfather's knee and heard the
Witch tales of Scotland; he had heard cf Maleom and Duncan. of the
Douglass and Michel Scott; his mind was a storehouse cf lemond and
tradition, and his pen has peopled the glens and caverns of his native
land with pixies, elves and goblins. He remembered Bruce and Wallace,
and Bannockburn. where the hosts of Edward were nut to flight by the

Scottish soldiers; and he rejoiced in the fact that Scotland, tho inferior

in territory and population, had never yet bowed the knee to England.
He remembered that the union had come enly bv the seating of James,
+ ‘ r ° ; ; e Pe i
the Scotchman, upon the Throne cf the United Kingdoms.

These representatives of three great races snoke ‘he same sentiment:
‘ach, in his own way, gave ex>ression to the same thought—to the
Same generous emotion that swells in the breast of every man beneath
the Sun who is worthy to walk uprightly in the image of his maker.

B

Each loved his native land above al) other lands: each loved his home
folk above all other folk; and the wor id has honored them for it.

And so today, Ladies and Gentlemea, we have met here to do rever-
ence to those who fought, and those who died on this field on February
27, 1776, who helved give to the world its youngest Republic, the Land
of the Free and the Home of the Brave. We should glory in their valor
and smile upon the heritage that they have transmitted to us. It is an
old, old story that I shall tell you. It- has been told many times before;

but the sentiment that drew our forefathers to this hallowed snot will
burn forever in the the breast of man.

The story of Horatius at the Bridge has fired many a youth with pa-
triotic fervor. The story cf Moore's Creek Bridge, the traditions of sac-
rifice and suffering that have come down to us through the ages, should
Stir the hearts of all true North Carolinians, even as a bugle call, so long
as men think and dream of liberty.

| see before me a vast concourse of native Carolinians—the descend-
ants of Irish, English and Scotch progenitors. There may be mingled
in your veins the blood of both Whig and Tory; but, as Time levels all
distinctions and adjusts all differences, so has it erased from our minds
the bitterness and hatred of the nast. Today there is no distinction among
citizens, so long as they are true; but a fellowship and fervor that finds
its deepest symbolism and significance in the one word—‘American;:”
the most princely name among the nations of the Earth.

Perhaps I should apologize to you for attempting to travel over this

worn and beaten path; or to add to what has so often and so eloquently
fallen from the lips of those who have preceded me on this platform; but

 

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when I consider the significance of the event, and of its influence upon
the lives of our people, I feel that there may be some few facts that I
may add to what has already been said; and if indeed I
should attempt any apology, it would lie in the simple fact that the only
man who gave his life to the cause of liberty—the only man who fell
on this side of the Bridge, was John Grady, a brother of my own great
great grandfather. It is on his account, and because of the honor that he
has added to the family name, that I feel myself justified in speaking
here today.

It has been truly said that there is no State in the American Union,
whose early history is marked by a purer patriotism, whose people
maintained a more unsullied devotion to liberty, or a more indomitable
opposition to tyranny, than North Carolina. But her story has never
been truly interpreted or aptly told. .

Virginia has had its Jefferson, its Madison, its Marshall and its Wirt;
Massachusetts has had its Hancock, its Adams and its Everett; all these
have pictured to the world the glories of their respective Common-
wealths; North Carolina has remained in obscurity, while her best. tra-
ditions have been well nigh forgotten; because, forsooth, her sons were
too modest to boast, or too indolent to undertake a task of such fearful
proportions. It is a sad commentary, that prior to 1851, the record of her
birth and early development had been wriiten by strangers alone—men
of foreign birth, who had uo sympathy with her faults, and no pride in
her achievements.

No man can write History truly, who is not of the soil whereof he
speaks; he must be bone of the bone and blood of the blood, if he would
be able to commend with candor and reprehend with justice; and no
other should inake the attempt.

Mr. George Bancroft, a just and impartial historian, has declared
more than fifty years ago, “that the history of North ‘Carolina hes been
so carelessly written that even the name, the merits and the end of its
first governor are unknown.” It is to John W. Wheeler, more than to any
other man in the world, that North Carolina is indebted for the dis-
covery and preservation of its early records, and for the perpetuation
of its most cherished traditions.

But, as Truth crushed to Earth Will Rise Again, so it is, that out of
the mists of the past, in spite of strenuous efforts to stifle and ridicule
them, the facts have come gradually to light. The libraries of London,
the musty records of ancient Trading Houses, and the private documents
of families, have given up their treasures; and now, with the conscious-
ness of what she is, with the knowledge of what she has been in the
past, North Carolina asks no favors of Virginia, she pays no homage to
Massachusetts, and she truckles to no contending competitor, when
she asserts and proclaims her Colonial supremacy in the War of the
Revolution. It was a North Carolina Company that met the King’s forces

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at Alamance; it was a North Carolina Convention that first instructed
its dolegates in the Continental Congress to declare for indevendence: it
was a patriot band of North Carolina Militiamen that struck the first
blow for liberty in the Southern Provinces; it was the Battle of Moore's
Creek Bridge that swept the State of the invader and sent the Britiah
Navy Southwards in search of a more comfortable landing place.

And because of its commanding position in the early history of our
commonwealth; because of its influence upon those who were still loyal
to the Crown; because of the impetus that it gave to the cause of inde-
pendence, we have come here today to do reverence to that event, and

ee ee “those who kept the bridge so well, in the brave days of
old. |

Standing upon this soil; hallowed by the memories of many genera-
tions; listening to the echoes of battle as they reverberate from heart to
heart among those who have descended from that little band of heroes,
the scene comes back to me, in all its gruesome detail, with all of its
sorrows and privations, and with all its happy consequences.

I hear the bugle of the Whig as it hurls defiance to the pibroch of
the Scot; I see the Camp fires burning, and I can hear the excited voices
of the Highlanders as they discuss the coming Battle; on the one side
there is bustle and confusion; on the other, silence and grim determina-
tion. Tn the early watches of the night a traitor has stolen out of the
Scottish camp and come over to the Whig; Caswell knows that the ene-
my will attack at dawn. There is a curt command, and the bridge he-
tween the two armies is stripped to its girders; there is not a plank left.
Kenan and Love, with their Duplin Rangers, lie on their arms and await

the break of day, when the Scot will begin the attack; there are fifteen

hundred Tories, with well trained officers—McLeod, McLean and Me-
Donald; there are one thousand Americans, without experience, and un-
accustomed to war; they are armed with muskets, and with two old
cannon, one of which has been derisively named “Mother Covington;”
pai with this almost ridiculous preparation, they confidently await the
day.

The Whig believes in the God of Battles, and he relies upon him for
guidance and protection; the Scotch forces, chafing under an unwilling
oath, are restless and uneasy; some of them remember Culloden, and one
of them, at least, remembers an cath that he took at Newbern, when he
Was suspected of being a British emissary, for McDonald had sworn
there that he was not in the service of the Crown; now he is sick with

ve and whimpering in his tent, while McLeod takes over the com-
mand, i

How strangely are the schemes of men confounded

The sun rises in glorious majesty; the fogs begin to lift, the hour has
arrived, and there is a blast from the bugle at Headquarters: It is the

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call to arms There is a sound of many feet, the rattle of sabres and of
muskets, and the measured tread of advancing cavalry. McLeod and
McRae lead the attack; Campbell and Murchison and Stewart and Mc-
Arthur, with a band of Highlanders, charge direct at the bridge. Bare-
legged and with uplifted broadswords, they rush madly on to certain
death; for there had been no reconnaissance, and they did not know that
the bridge was stripped; they did not know that they had been betrayed.

The Whig has been silent until now. There is a whispered command, a
clicking among the trenches, and they burst into flame. I can see the
Scotsmen reel and pitch headlong into the waters below; McLeod rises
in his stirrups, cluthches wildly at the air, and follows his companions
into eternity, pierced by more than twenty bullets.

The scene shifts, and I see Captain Slocumb with a picked detach-
ment, fording the stream above; he attacks the Scotsmen in the flank;
there is havoc and wild confusion; the Highlanders charge again and
again; they are desperate, for their trusted leader has fallen; the Whig
wishes to end the carnage, but the enemy will not yield.

“Old Mother Covington” has thus far been silent; they wheel her into
position and apply the match; she refuses to fire; the match is again
applied, but without result; then I see Richard Caswell ride up and
discharge his pistol into the touch-hole, when there is a roar that shakes
the earth, a stream of fire and slugs spreads across the valley, and the
last Tory is swept from the bridge. I can hear the curses of the men
ald the scream of the women; they are flying from place to place, in
search of hushand, father or son; and then I see the last stand of the
enemy as they close about the tent of their stricken General:

“The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge thi~ iorse assailed,
Front, rank and rear the squadrous Sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep
That fought about their King;
- But yet, tho thick the shafts as snow:
Tho charging Knights like whirlwinds go,
Tho bill-men ply the deadly blow,
Unbroken is the ring.”

Thus sang Sir Walter Scott of the last stand at Flodden Field when
James was captured and slain; but a different fate was in store for the
unhappy McDonald. With all of his officers dead, his Highlanders scat-
tered and beaten, there is no course left but surrender. He raises the
white flag, and hands over his sword to Caswell—a broken and sorrow-
ful old man, who has done his best for England and his King.

It should be said, to the honor of the Whigs, that they treated him
kindly, and tho he had broken his word of honor, given at Newbern,
he was accorded every courtesy that his rank demanded. General Mc-

 

Gy mer rrr er re r rr  s n  ssSS

Donald was paroled by order of the Colonial Congress in April, 1777;
he left the State forever. His defeat at Moore’s Creek Bridge was in some
manner compensated by the generous conduct of his captors.

We turn again to the scene of Battle; there is a party of four, bearing
a ghastly burden on a hasty bier; the soldiers gather around to pay their
respects to one who has fought bravely and died with honor—the only
sacrifice of the day. Ezekiel Slocumb wraps his favorite coat about the
body, and Capt. Love lays his sword across the honored breast. It is

Private John Grady, of the Duplin Rangers, rigid in death, but cover-
ed with glory!

And there is a third chapter to the story, filled with romance and
heroic suffering. Away to the North, on the sandy hills of Wayne, lived
Mary Slocumb, the wife of Ezekiel. By the dying embers of the fire she
sat and dreamed of her absent lover; then a vision passed before her;
there was a river of blood and the sound of arms; she saw the Sun rise,
and there in the distance was a bridge with many dead men, bareleg-
ged and with broadswords; and there where the men were gathering on
this side of the River, she saw the form of her husband, wrapped in
the coat that she made with her own hands; then she saw a stranger
approach and place a naked sword across his breast. She awoke with a
scream, and believing it to be a presentiment, saddled her red nag, Mag-
gie, and rode furiously to the scene of the conflict. All night long she
rode, with only the light of the stars; and just as the battle ended she
came in sight of the bridge.

The command had been given and the men were slowly gathering
about the body of their dead comrade; there was a hush in the ranks,
broken only by an occasional sob. Someone has found a prayer book
and they are about to read the funeral services, when there is a sound
of rushing feet, and the cry of a woman in despair; the soldiers look on
in dismay as Mary rides into the camp, ragged and bruised, with her
red mare panting for breath.

Quickly she dismounts and rushes to the body; she sees the coat of
Ezekiel, but she cannot understand the sword of Love; dazed and _ be-
wildered, she catches the cap from the dead facé and gazes into the
lifeless countenance—not of her dear husband; but of John Grady.

And now I see Ezekiel approaching from the West, where he has been
in quest of fleeing Tories; Mary falls into his outstretched arms, and the
curtain falls upon this final scene, broken only by a sob for the dead
and a smile for those who are yet alive

Ladies and Gentlemen, the picture is but poorly drawn. Would that
I had the power to paint it in all of its beauty; for it is beautiful, in spite
of its harrowing details—beautiful to us, at least, who are the distri-
butees and heirs at law of a worthy ancestry, and partakers of the her-
itage of freedom that was here bequeathed to a suffering world. The

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story of Mary Slocumb’s ride has been traditional in the community
where I was reared for One Hundred and Fifty Years: I believe it is
true in substance; for, like the Wizard in Lochiel, the exaltation of the
moment may have giver her “mystical lore, and coming events cast
their shadows before.” Mary saw the shadow; but not the substance. At
any rate, it is a beautiful story that cught to be perpetuated.

On a little knoll this side of Dudley, where the train stops for water,
Mary and Ezekiel sleep side by side, under an old mulberry tree. There
is a simple tombstone there and a simpler inscription on the stone.
One wouud never guess from this inscription that Ezekiel Slocumb took
part in the emancipation of America. This should be a cherished spot;
the people of North Carolina should not let their ashes be forgotten.

My grandfather said that Richard Caswell stopped at the home of
Alexander Grady, on his way to Newbern, and told him of his brother's
death and burial. Caswell maintained that John would have lived if
he had obeyed orders; but that becoming reckless he rose above the
breastworks in order to take more certain aim, wnen a ball passed
through his head, causing instant death.

They buried John Grady on the bank of the Cape Fear, within the
preseit limits of the City of Wilmington; he wore the Coat of Slocumb

and the sword of Captain Love; but like the tomb of Moses on Nebo’s.

lonely Mountain, no inan knows that sepulchre to this day. The site is
lost forever.

Ladies and Gentlemen: In the Encyclopedia Americana, which is
corsidered standard, in Vol. 24, under the caption, “Moore’s Creek,” you
will find the following statement: “Moore’s Creek is noted on account of
u battle fought on its banks, 27 February, 1776, between the American
forces and the British. The British soldiers, nearly all highland Scotch,
under Brig. General McDonald, numbered 1500, and the Americans, un-
der Caswell and Lillington, numbered 1000. The charge was made by the
British who tried to cross the stream on the girders of a bridge; the
planks had been taken away; but the Militia and Minute men of the
American forces routed them. Fully 30 British were killed, many wound-
ed, and about 500 prisoners taken. The victory gained by the Americans
was an inspiration to the Carolinas; it had the same effect in the South
that the Battle of Lexington had in New England.”

That is a fair statement and sample of American history. If the Battle
of Moore’s Creek Bridge had been fought on New England soil, or in
Virginia, The Amerisana would have devoted Many pages to an event
of so much importance; and it would have been heralded around the
world as one of the greatest victories of the Revolution. There would be
a Monument on this spot equal to, if not greater than the one at Bunker
Hill; and millions would have been appropriated to the adornment of
its surrounding territory. But because it was in the South, and upon the

soil of the despised and forgotten Province of North Carolina, we must
be contented with a mere notice in the books, and a few paltry dollars

out of the public coffers.

When we remember that this battle was fought something more than
five months prior to the Declaration of Independence, when every man
was afraid of his neighbor, not knowing whether he was Whig or Tory;
when the population of the entire province was less than three hundred
thousand, we can begin to appreciate the heroism of those who stood out
for the right, and espoused the cause of liberty,

The province had not yet revolted; many men were opposed to the
war, and still loyal to the King; the assembling of soldiers at that time,
without permission from the Royal Governor, was rank treason under
the law. Every man who participated in this battle did so at the risk
of his life, and the forfeiture of his worldly goods; for failure meant
treason, and treason meant death and confiscation.

General Clinton issued a proclamation from the transport Pallas in
the Cape Fear River, on May 5, 1777, declaring that a most wicked and
unprovoked rebellion existed in His Majesty’s province of North Caro-
lina, to the total subversion of all lawful authority; and requiring all
Congresses and Committees to be dissolved, and offering pardon to all
persons who would obey, saving Cornelius Harnett and Robert Howe.
This proclamation shows the desperate situation that existed, and how
fearful had been the result of the Battle at Moore’s Creek Bridge. Fif-
teen hundred Scotchmen had been defeated; their General captured, and
all of his subordinate officers had been killed; 500 prisoners of war and
$75,000 in gold coin had been taken, together with more than a thous-
and stands of arms. It must be remembered that at this time Sir Hen-
ry Clinton and Lord William Campbell were entering the Cape Fear
river with a considerable force; Sir Peter Parker with ten ships, and
Lord Cornwallis with seven Regiments, were expected at any moment.
Within a few days time Clinton and Campbell could have co-operated
with their Scotch friends, and North Carolina would have been at the
mercy of its enemies; but how bitter must have been the disappointment
to the British officers, when they learned that the embodied loyalists
of the Province had been discomfited with great slaughter; that all
their Generals had either been killed or captured, and that their hopes
were forever blasted to such an extent that they could never again
muster in any considerable number; and were, for the present, glad to

save their lives in any way they could.

The victory at Moore’s Creek Bridge was like an electric shock to the
long suffering colonists. Within less than thirty days more than ten
thousand men had mustered into service against the King; so that the

weak and despised Province of North Carolina had at last come into
action with a swiftness and determination that shocked the loyalists

 

22 Ente)
into panic and consternation.

The War lasted several years; but it must be admitted that this deci-
Slve victory gave an impetus to the cause of liberty, a thrill to the hearts
of the people of the South, such as to give it a place in history equal if
not superior, to that of Lexington and Bunker Hill. Each had its lasting
effect; but the future historian will pause long before he accords to New
England the laurels that it has so long enjoyed, and denies to North Caro-
lina the honors to which it is justly entitled, and for which it has wait-

ed in patience for these many, many years. All that we ask is
justice from the Federal Government.

Macaulay Says in his Lays of Ancient Rome, that after Horatius had
held the bridge against the army of Lars Porsena,
lic coffers and did him honor.

justice—

“They gave him of the corn land

That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen

Could plow from morn till night.

And they made a molten image

And set it up on high;
And there it stands unto this day,

To witness if I lie.

In the brave days of old. ; ae

Unto the sons of Rome, Ste
As the trumpet blast that cries to them ee
To charge the Voliscian home; Paley
And wives still pray to Juno, Sakis
For boys with hearts as bold, : ,

As his who kept the bridge so well,
In the brave days of old.”

And still his name sounds stirring

So let it be with us. The stand of Horatius at Tiber-Bridge was no more

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confidence to its posterity, that does not look backward with pride to
its ancestors.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, let me remind you of another duty
that you owe to yourselves, as well as to posterity. England and France
have adorned their streets and avenues with statues and monuments
to their great men. In England you will find the bronze statue of Crom-
well, the regicide, standing as prominently as those of the Stuarts or
the Tudors. In France you will find that Bonaparte, the revolutionist, is
honored equally with the Kings that he deposed.

In America the Federal Congress has laid aside sectional prejudice,
and today you may see in the Hall of Fame at Washington, the statue
of the matchless Lee, standing in line with the figures of Grant, Farra-
gut and Sherman. In the future, when the story of secession is told
without passion or sectional hate, the visitor at Washington will look
with equal favor upon Grant, the Federal, and Lee, the Confederate. He
will ask but one question: Was this a great American?

The time has come for us to pardon those who stood by the King at
Moore’s Creek. These men were not traitors. McDonald was a General
in the British army; McLeod did no more than his duty as he con-
ceived it. The Scotch highlanders who fought here, had also fought at
Culloden. Many of them had been followers of Charles Edward Stuart,
the young pretender to the British Throne; and when his cause was
lost, they were compelled to take an oath of allegiance to the Royal
House of England. It may have been an unwilling oath; but the Scotch-
man is usually a man of his word. Our Whig forefathers had never taken
such an oath, and they did not hesitate to turn against the King when he

denied them the right of local self-government.

Let us be just to these people. Let us honor them all; for in the great
hereafter it will make no difference what flag we followed, or to which
political party we belonged, so long as there was honor in the fight, and

a clear conscience.

“For when the One Great Scorer comes
To write against your name;

He'll write not what you won or lost,
But how you played the game.”

The descendants of these Scotch Tories constitute a large part of the
citizenship of North Carolina; they are just as loyal to the State and
to the National Government as are the descendants of the Whigs. Let
us join with them in honoring their ancestors, and I am sure that they

will join with us in doing homage to our own.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, with your permission, I will give
you my own version of a story that has been handed down from gener-

a
they opened the pub- ‘
It stands in the Comitium, iris
Plain for all folk to see—
Horatius in his harness, ; eae
Halting upon one knee: Dy cased Sener ay
And underneath is written mA
heroic than the stand of Caswell at Moore's Creek. Both kept the

In letters all of gold,
bridge. Let us remember always that no people can look forward with | |

How valiantly he kept the bridge,

ation to generation in the community where I was reared. It is a met-
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rical and partly historical composition, entitled:
“MARY SLOCUMB’S RIDE.”

Have you heard of the ride of Ezekiel’s bride,
When she dreamed that her lover was slain?
Will ye list to a tale of the long ago,
Of a faithful wife thru weal and woe,
From the red sand hills of Wayne?

Thru a Wintry Night, by the flickering light,
Of a fagot’s dying glow, ©
She dreamed of a field of fire and flood,
Of a sullen stream that ran like blood—
With the blood of friend and foe.

And there by the side of that reddening tide,
Sore stricken and drenched with gore,

His fair form shattered by shot and shell,

In the sable cloak that she knew so well,
Lay the lad whose name she-bore.

By the rising Sun she saw but one,

And that ONE she dearly knew;
For the dream ran true as the scene was laid;
For only ONE was the price they paid,

For the forty and one they slew.

Then she fervently prayed to her God for aid—
For the courage to do and to dare;

When out of the night like a clarion call,

The whinny of Maggie, the mare, did fall,
On the hush of the midnight air.

Like a bird of the air, on the wings of despair,
To the stable of Maggie she fled:

To mount and away, ere the tear drops start,

With a deadly fear on her aching heart,—
Away to the field of the dead.

“Speed, Maggie, speed, for thy master’s in need.”
Cried Mary as onward they flew;

“By the light of my love, by the light of the stars,
By the light in the West from the red planet Mars;

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And there’s many and many a mile to go,
And the Battle begins at day.”

But the kindly sky came yet more nigh,
And. in after years ‘twas said,

That there was a dip in the Milky Way,

And the Ellen Yards shone bright as day,
On her fair and lovely head.

But neither the speed of the flying steed,
Nor the prayers of those who pray,

Can stem the tide of the rising Sun,

As it floods the vale where the waters run,
Where the hosts in armor lay.

For the Whigs of the East and the Scots of the West
Have gathered on meadow and ridge,
Where they wait for the glow of the Eastern Dawn,
As the treacherous waters murmured on,
By the field of Moore’s Creek Bridge.

Have ve heard of the fray at the break of day,

When the Highlander was stricken and sore;
When the men of McLeod found sheeting and shroud,
And the Cross of St. Andrew was battered and bowed,

In the bloody red waters of Moore

Will ye list to a tale of the Whig and the Gael,

As my forefathers told it of yore— a ae
How they stripped the bridge where the hills divide,

How brave John Grady fought and died,
By the blood stained waters of Moore?

—

How McLeod and MacRae, at the dawn of the day,

With Stewart and Campbell did ride;
How they fought and fell for an oath they made,

(With never a dream of their plans betrayed,)

~~
O, What if my dream comes true!”
“Speed, Maggie, speed; let my life be the meed,;
There must neither be stop nor stay;
For the light in the East is beginning to glow, ,
With Murchison and McBryde!

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For into the Gael did the leaden hail
Of the Duplin Rangers pour;

And they sank beneath that bleeding stream,
As they san& to Mary in her dream—
They sank to rise no more.

And there beside that rolling tide,
With musket each in his hand.

Brave men from the reaches of Goshen and Grove—

Caswell and Kenan and Harrell and Love—
In serried phalanx stand.

While high on her seat. where the trenches meet,
(Like a Goddess of Wrath she stood,)
Old Mother Covington’s brazen throat

Startles the answering hills remote,
As she belches fire and blood.

And the clans of McLeod are shrieking aloud,
And their widows are frantic with dread:
For there on the shore of the River of Moore,

Staring unsightly and clotted with gore,
Lie the sickening ranks of the dead.

But what of the men who had swept the glen
At the sound of the Reveille?

Not one but swore at the muster call.

To stand till the last red coat should fall—
Forever, and for aye.

,

Did IT sav all?—One name thev’l] call:
One Name—twas the price they paid:
For there on his bier, like a Cantain dressed,

‘With a Captain’s sword on his honored breast,
John Grady was tenderly laid!

For Slocumb and Love, and the men of The Grove,

Stand mute by the side of the dead,

As they sound a eall on the bugle note

For the scattered bands in the woods remote,
Ere the last sad rites are said.

But hark to the beat of the flying feet,

 

—_

 

Of a red mare lathered and sore;
Lathered with foam, and with gasping breath,
Running her last mad race with Death,

To the bloody red waters of Moore.

And who dares to ride, but Mary, the bride,
Bespattered with dust and dew;

As she climbs the crest of a hill

Her eager voice calls loud and shrill,
“QO, God, has my dream come true?”

:

“O, What have ye done to this noble son,
Ye stalwart men of the Grove?

Tho I see the cloak on the bloody sands,

The cloak that I made with my own frail hands—
The sword is the sword of Love!”

Like a wilted Rose when the Last wind blows,
She dropped to the dead man’s side;

She struck the cap from the withered eye,

And rose with a wild and startled cry;—
‘Twas brave John Grady she spied!

Then out of the mist, like a phanton, I wist,

tood Ezekiel; but coatless he came,
As he fondly pressed to his throbbing breast
The woman he loved, who loved him the best,

Who sobbingly calle is name

So, the riddle is read on the field of the dead,
(And ‘twas handed from father to son;—)
When the fatal shot from the bridge was sped,
And Ezekiel saw that his friend was dead,

He laid his cloak on John.

So they buried John, with his harness on,

Where the Cape Fear gently flows;
With his captain’s. sword they laid him down,

In Ezekiel’s choicest cap and gown,
But the spot no mortal knows.

Then Mary returned to the hills of Wayne,
With her lover so gallant and gay;

mes ga ck

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And there by the road, ‘neath the sod and dew,
They sleep the sleep as we all must do—
Waiting the Judgment day.

I have told the tale as ‘twas told to me,
As ‘twas handed from father to son:

It may be false, or it may be true:

Whatever its value, I give it to you.
Good people, my story is done.
le A NO

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