On the crest of the hill, the sweaty cannoneers, The blackened Pennsylvanians, picked up their rammers And fought the charge with handspikes and clubs and stones, Biting and howling. It is said that they cried Wildly, “Death on the soil of our native state Rather than lose our guns.” A general says so. He was not there. I do not know what they cried But that they fought, there was witness⁠—and that the grey Wave that came on them fought, there was witness too. For an instant that wheel of combat⁠—and for an instant A brief, hard-breathing hush. Then came the hard sound Of a column tramping⁠—blue reinforcements at last, A doomsday sound to the grey. The hard column came Over the battered crest and went in with a yell. The grey charge bent and gave ground, the grey charge was broken. The sweaty gunners fell to their guns again And began to scatter the shells in the ebbing wave.