The long hill slope, the river's course,
    The high tide sleeping there—
I see them all in sunshine soft;
    September days are fair.

The wild birds sing in Brixham woods,
    Far off the sea waves call;
In Scotland garrison but one
    Keeps watch and ward for all.

One woman at her spinning stands
    There in the lookout high,
Now glances at the woodland's edge,
    And now spins busily.

She bends to touch the whirling wheel,
Or mend the thread that flies,
Then wakes from sweet day-dreams of home
    And seeks with eager eyes

Her own and only little child,
    Lest she should stray too far
From where the captain and his men
    Out in the clearing are.

There steadily the brave men work,
    Nor sigh for what they miss;
A memory of English farms
    Would shame a wild like this.

2

All unafraid of Indian foes,
    Forgetting, every one,
The stories told to frighten her,
    Is Polly Masterson.

There, by the brook, such lovely flowers
    Have bloomed to make her glad,
Such scarlet splendors tall and gay
    Old England never had!

Her prim Dutch doll is in her arms,
    And Polly hums a tune
To match the brook that leads her on
    This pleasant afternoon.

The mother, busy at her wheel,
    The father at his plough,
Forget to keep her safe in sight,
    Nor dream of dangers now.

Yet suddenly a piercing call
    And all the work is done.
'Come in! come in!' the watcher cries,
    'Quick! to the garrison!'

Only one word the farmers need;
    With beating hearts they climb
The hill, and reach the open door
    And shut it just in time.

Out from the woods the Indians steal
    Like tigers lithe and strong.
A merciless and awful cry
    Rings out and echoes long.

'All safe, thank God!' says Masterson,
    'Now let the siege begin—
Our walls are strong.' Then wails his wife,
    'Did you bring Polly in?'

A sudden silence in the fort;
    A fearful hum without—
And by the brook the scarlet flowers
    That tempted Polly out.

3

She hears the crackling of the boughs;
    Strange whispers come and go;
Oh, Polly Masterson, run quick!
    Your little feet are slow!

Alas, she hears the savage cry.
Where has her father gone?
He cannot have forgotten her,
    His Polly Masterson.

She hurries by the scarlet flowers,
    She holds her dolly fast,
She sees the crested, snake-like heads—
    The danger knows at last.

The Indians! oh the woods are full
    Of dreadful shapes of men!
Across the open field can she
    Get safely home again?

They see her come, the little girl.
    Alas, she trips and falls!
Oh anxious faces looking down
    From the stockaded walls!

They fear to see her captured now
    Before their very eyes—
The awful march to Canada
    Brings fearful memories.

The father turns away his face,
    He prays to God aloud.
The mother stands as still as stone
    To watch the savage crowd.

For just beyond, so short, so small,
    The breathless Polly tries
To hurry to the fast-barred gate
    And 'Father! Father!' cries!

Who can go out? The strong men look,
    But cannot speak; they know
That certain death is his who dares
    To meet the foes below.

And no one fires a gun; they stand
    And watch the little child,
They hear her voice so faint and shrill,
    They see her apron, piled

With posies, and her arm still holds
    The dolly safe and fast.
There! there she is! The Indians see,
    They laugh as she runs past.

They must not murder Polly where
    An hour ago she played!
Oh will they drag her to the North
    A wretched captive maid?

What blessed mercy sudden shone
    And covered many a sin!
The Indians shouted merrily
    And Polly safe went in.

No tomahawks were thrown at her
    And no one gave her chase;
Perhaps it touched their savage hearts—
    That frightened little face!

The story seems for those dark times
    A gleam of sunshine bright;
I hope they called the Indians friends
    And gave them food that night.

But one thing I am sure about
    (And then my story's done)—
That all the women and the men
    Hugged Polly Masterson!