William Gilmore Simms
WE follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we;
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer’s den,
Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.
We fly by day and shun its light,
But prompt to strike the sudden blow,
We mount and start with early night,
And through the forest track our foe,
And soon he hears our chargers leap,
The flashing saber blinds his eyes,
And ere he drives away his sleep,
And rushes from his camp, he dies.
Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
That will not ask a kind caress
To swim the Santee at our need,
When on his heels the foemen press –
The true heart and the ready hand,
The spirit stubborn to be free,
The twisted bore, the smiting brand –
And we are Marion’s men, you see.
Now light the fire and cook the meal,
The last, perhaps, that we shall taste;
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
And that’s a sign we move in haste.
He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
You hear his order calm and low.
Come, wave your torch across the dark,
And let us see the boys that go.
We may not see their forms again,
God help ’em, should they find the strife!
For they are strong and fearless men,
And make no coward terms for life;
They’ll fight as long as Marion bids,
And when he speaks the word to shy,
Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,
Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.
Now stir the fire and lie at ease –
The scouts are gone, and on the brush
I see the Colonel bend his knees,
To take his slumbers too. But hush!
He’s praying, comrades; ‘t is not strange;
The man that’s fighting day by day
May well, when night comes, take a change,
And down upon his knees to pray.
Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand
The sly and silent jug that ‘s there;
I love not it should idly stand
When Marion’s men have need of cheer.
‘T is seldom that our luck affords
A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
And dry potatoes on our boards
May always call for such a draught.
Now pile the brush and roll the log;
Hard pillow, but a soldier’s head
That’s half the time in brake and bog
Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night,
The cooter crawling o’er the bank,
And in that pond the flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.
What! ‘t is the signal! start so soon,
And through the Santee swamp so deep,
Without the aid of friendly moon,
And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
But courage, comrades! Marion leads;
The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
So clear your swords and spur your steeds,
There’s goodly chance, I think, of fight.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
We leave the swamp and cypress tree,
Our spurs are in our coursers’ sides,
And ready for the strife are we.
The Tory camp is now in sight,
And there he cowers within his den;
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
He fears, and flies from Marion’s men.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem focuses on the men who rode with Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox” of the Revolutionary War, and it leans into the rough, improvised nature of their fighting. Rather than turning Marion’s guerrilla tactics into legend, it gives a sense of the daily work of soldiers who live in mud, trees, and darkness, always moving and never settled. The poem’s strength is that it does not try to romanticize the environment. It shows the swamp as a place of refuge, discomfort, and constant danger.
The opening lines describe the group as hunted men who sleep in deer dens and hammocks of turf. The tone is matter-of-fact. These details set up the idea that their survival depends on moving lightly and disappearing when conventional troops come near. The poem uses repetition of “we” to make the group feel unified and to make the speaker sound like one voice among many, not a hero telling his own story.
The poem places most of its energy on movement. They fly by day, strike at night, and trail their enemy through the forest. The quick rhythm matches the kind of fighting they do—short bursts, ambushes, fast escapes. There is no long explanation of strategy; instead, the reader gets quick images: a saber’s flash, a rider leaping awake too late, a camp thrown into confusion. The effect is to make the style of combat clear without needing any large commentary.
The middle section shows the mixture of rest and tension that comes with guerrilla warfare. The men build a fire, cook their food, and notice that the next meal might be their last. Marion’s quiet whistle is enough to send scouts out into the dark. The poem draws attention to the fact that these scouts may not return, but it does so in a blunt way, not a sentimental one. The men trust their commander, and the poem emphasizes that their courage is tied to obedience: they fight as long as he commands and retreat only when he gives the order.
A surprising moment comes when Marion quietly kneels to pray before trying to sleep. This is presented without commentary. It suggests that someone who fights constantly needs a moment to steady himself, and the poem leaves it at that. It is one of the few human details given to Marion, who is mostly shown as a silent leader moving through shadows.
The poem also notes the soldiers’ attempts to find small comforts in harsh conditions. They share a jug, break up hoecake, and accept that their beds are logs and brush. It includes background noises like owls, turtles, and alligators. These details do not serve as decoration but as reminders that their lives take place in an environment that is indifferent to them.
The poem’s last section moves back into action. A signal comes, too early and too suddenly, and the men must ride without moonlight and without being fully awake. The poem does not try to make this heroic; it simply shows that fatigue is part of the job. The encouragement “Marion leads” is enough to get them moving toward another fight.
The final lines show the moment when they reach the enemy’s camp. Instead of a dramatic battle scene, the Tory troops panic and flee. The poem uses this to underline the reputation of Marion’s men: the threat of their approach is enough to break the enemy’s courage. The poem closes by repeating the opening idea that they follow Marion into danger, trusting his judgment and depending on their own speed and stubbornness.
Overall, the poem works by sticking to clear statements about the conditions, decisions, and quick movements of these fighters. It is not concerned with polished heroics. It wants to capture the mix of endurance, hardship, and sudden violence that defined the Swamp Fox’s campaigns, and it does so through simple images and group-centered storytelling rather than high rhetoric.