Listen my children to hear the tale
Of the midnight ride of a brave young girl.
On the twenty-sixth of April, in seventy-seven,
She rode her steed like an angel from heaven.
With the Brits burning Danbury, her father, the colonel
Had no choice to charge her with the journey, nocturnal.
The fate of a new nation was riding that night,
On young Sybil Ludington, her horse, and their flight.
And no poetic moon shone it's blessed light upon her,
As it thundered and stormed across thither and yonder.
Rain drenched her clothes, branches pelted her face,
As she galloped on dark, muddy paths to each place.
Choosing carefully the houses of the Patriot allies,
Passing up those of Brit supporters and Tories,
She rapped on the doors of those who would trust her,
And shouted, "Make haste -- to Ludington's muster!"
And lo! As she galloped through the dark of the night
A glimmer - and then, a gleam of bright light!
The fires of Danbury, just a few miles away,
Glowed on the horizeon like the dawn of the day.
Shiv'ring and mud covered, her skin cut by thorn bushes,
She deftly evaded one or two ambushes
While riding for hours throughout Dutchess County,
Calling to arms the local Patriots army.
By the time she returned home to see dawn's first luster,
Four hundred had anwered her shout out to muster!
Assembled by her father, all were ready for action
Tho' they numbered far fewer than the large British faction.
But with hearts filled with passion the marched off to Danbury,
And surprised the Brit Regulars, who'd been making damn merry
With the liberal use of the rum they'd discovered
When the Patriots hiddn supplies were uncovered.
In chaotic astonishment drunken redcoats retreated,
Which swayed the next battle, where the Brits were defeated.
Sybil was hailed a "heroine", like none'd ever outranked her,
And even George Washington came calling, and thanked her.
She was but Sweet Sixteen, Paul's age was forty.
His miles were sixteen, but her mileage was was forty!
So why's she forgotten, un-revered in history
While Revere has the spotlight? It is quite a mystery!
But any poor poet, no matter how sincere,
Must embellish the story that promotes his career.
So, in spite of the stellar job Washington said Sybil'd done
Poor Longfellow failed to find any rhymes for "Ludington."
But the poet found words that would rhyme with Revere,
And his mighty pen caused the real hero to disappear.
And that is how Paul Revere's ride become history,
While Sybil still waits for the telling of "Sis"-tory.
The Midnight Ride of Sybil Ludington; Meryl Ann Butler
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