Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.

The crystal streams, the pearly streams,
The streams in sunbeams flashing,
The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,
The streams down mountains dashing,
Have been the theme
Of poets' dream,
And, in wild witching story,
Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,
Or some great deed of glory.

The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,
The Arno, silver-flowing,
The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,
With poesy are glowing;
But I would praise
In artless lays,
A stream which well may match ye,
Though dark its waters glide along--
The swampy Salkehatchie.

'Tis not the beauty of its stream,
Which makes it so deserving
Of honor at the Muses' hands,
But 'tis the use it's serving,
And 'gainst a raid,
We hope its aid
Will ever prove efficient,
Its fords remain still overflowed,
In water ne'er deficient.

If Vandal bands are held in check,
Their crossing thus prevented,
And we are spared the ravage wild
Their malice has invented,
Then we may well
In numbers tell
No other stream can match ye,
And grateful we shall ever be
To swampy Salkehatchie.

The Broken Mug.