There was Howe within the valley,
He alone could lead them on;
And behind him marched the stormers,
At an early hour of dawn.
'Cross the valley, up the hillside,
At the nooning of the day,
Where behind the rude abattis
The embattled farmers lay.

There was Prescott on the hilltop,
Standing on the wall alone,
While below him lay his rebels,
Little feared, and all unknown.
There was Warren in the trenches,
Passing 'round from man to man,
Smiling as he paused to watch them
Sift the powder in the pan.

Deep and fast the ships' guns bellowed,
Ball and shell screamed up the way,
Tore away the rude abattis
Where the rebel farmers lay.
There was Stark to guard the lowlands,
Where the Mystic gurgles still,
Stark behind the hay-thatched breastworks
On the slopes of Bunker Hill.

Time and time the English stormers
Turned their faces toward the foe—
Black as hell the musket muzzles
Frowned above them, row on row;
Waited ominously for them,
Waited, till beyond recall,
They should pass into the shadow
Of that grim and silent wall.

Time and time those gruesome muzzles
Leapt from darkness into light;
Time and time the black smoke lowered
To obscure the bloody sight;
Then again a fearful silence—
There in windrows, stiff and still,
Lay the valiant English stormers
On the slopes of Bunker Hill.

There was Howe within the valley,
Urging on a new attack;
There was Prescott on the hilltop
Striving hard to beat them back;
There, the city black and blazing,
Here the hill all steeped in red,
There, too, lay the noble Warren,
In the rebel trenches, dead.

Time and time the world has listened
To the story often told,
To the story of oppression,
And the tyranny of old.
Though the battle's roar is ended,
Loud its echo ranges still—
'Tis the voice of Freedom thund'ring
From the slopes of Bunker Hill.