Scattered recollections from the short life and long death of the Vermont Republic. 'Twas Yankee bade our wild geese go, that "Rhode Island might be free"; Their lonely graves are by Cape Cod's waves on the fringe of the great Maine Sea Oh, had they died by Keyser's side or fought with great Jack Drew Their graves we'd keep where Vermonters sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew. Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack made perfidious Yankees reel In the leaden rain, seven tongs of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear