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 but 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 its bless'd 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,
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