  By THOMAS PAINE. (Published in the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.) In a chariot of light from the regions of day, The Goddess of Liberty came; Ten thousand celestials directed the way, And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love, And the plant she named Liberty Tree. The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground, Like a native it flourished and bore; The fame of its fruit drew the nations around, To seek out this peaceable shore. Unmindful of names or distinction they came, For freemen like brothers agree; With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued, And their temple was Liberty Tree. Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old, Their bread in contentment they ate, Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold, The cares of the grand and the great. With timber and tar they Old England supplied, And supported her power on the sea; Her battles they fought, without getting a groat, For the honor of Liberty Tree. But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane, How all the tyrannical powers, Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain, To cut down this guardian of ours; From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms, Through the land let the sound of it flee, Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer, In defence of our Liberty Tree. [This poem first appeared in the newspapers in 1774, and was ascribed to Joseph Warren.—Editor.] That seat of Science, Athens, And earth's proud mistress, Rome; Where now are all their glories? We scarce can find a tomb. Then guard your rights, Americans, Nor stoop to lawless sway; Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose, For North America. We led fair Freedom hither, And lo, the desert smiled! A paradise of pleasure Was opened in the wild! Your harvest, bold Americans, No power shall snatch away! Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, For free America. Torn from a world of tyrants, Beneath this western sky, We formed a new dominion, A land of liberty: The world shall own we're masters here; Then hasten on the day: Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, For free America. Proud Albion bowed to CÆsar, And numerous lords before; To Picts, to Danes, to Normans, And many masters more: But we can boast, Americans, We've never fallen a prey; Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, For free America. God bless this maiden climate, And through its vast domain May hosts of heroes cluster, Who scorn to wear a chain: And blast the venal sycophant That dares our rights betray; Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, For free America. Lift up your hands, ye heroes, And swear with proud disdain, Shall lay his snares in vain: Should Europe empty all her force, We'll meet her in array, And fight and shout, and shout and fight For North America. Some future day shall crown us, The masters of the main, Our fleets shall speak in thunder To England, France, and Spain; And the nations over the ocean spread Shall tremble and obey The sons, the sons, the sons, the sons, Of brave America. By PHILIP FRENEAU. [The following note explanatory of references to proper names, etc., in this poem is copied from Duyckinck's edition of Freneau.—Editor.] Note.—Sir James Wallace, Admiral Graves, and Captain Montague, were British naval officers, employed on our coast. The Viper and Rose were vessels in the service. Lord Dunmore, the last royal governor of Virginia, had recently, in April, 1775, removed the public stores from Williamsburg, and, in conjunction with a party of adherents, supported by the naval force on the station, was making war on the province. William Tryon, the last Royal governor of New York, informed of a resolution of the Continental Congress: "That it be recommended to the several provincial assemblies in conventions and councils, or committees of safety, to arrest and secure every person in their respective EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE. By PHILIP FRENEAU. Libera nos, Domine —Deliver us, O Lord, Not only from British dependence, but also, From a junto that labor for absolute power, Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour; From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom Who still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em. From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions, And fools that are waiting for further submissions; From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt, From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt. From pirates sent out by command of the king To murder and plunder, but never to swing; From Wallace, and Graves, and Vipers, and Roses, Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses. From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city, From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear, The little fat man with his pretty white hair. From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown, From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne, From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings, (Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings). From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city, And swelled with importance, disdains the committee; (But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes, What the devil care we where the devil he goes.) From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains, From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains, Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap) He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map. From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears. I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayers That we, disunited, may freemen be still, And Britain go on—to be damn'd if she will. 1775 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good-night," and with muffled oar Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he clim'd the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,— By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapp'd in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamp'd the earth, And turn'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth; But mostly he watch'd with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river's fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall. Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest: in the books you have read, How the British regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all our history to the last, In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. By JOHN PIERPONT. Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,—ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you!—they're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!—and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may,—and die we must: Be consign'd so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr'd patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell? By FRANCIS M. FINCH. To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armÈd sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns, By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance— A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a still clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spent wings are free. But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry. From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn! (Moore's "Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution." 1856.) The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!" As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook. With mother and sister and memories dear, He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook. Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, To make his retreat; to make his retreat. He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he passed through the wood, as he passed through the wood; And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. They took him and bore him afar from the shore, To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill. No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. But he trusted in love, from his Father above, In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he soon must die; for he soon must die." The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,— The cruel general! the cruel general!— His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, And said that was all; and said that was all. They took him and bound him and bore him away, Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. 'T was there the base hirelings, in royal array, His cause did deride; his cause did deride. Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent; for him to repent. He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood As his words do presage, as his words do presage. "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." (From Griswold's "Curiosities of American literature." 1843.) On Christmas-day in seventy-six, Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed, For Trenton marched away. The Delaware see! the boats below! The light obscured by hail and snow! But no signs of dismay. Our object was the Hessian band, That dared invade fair freedom's land, And quarter in that place. Great Washington he led us on, Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun; Had never known disgrace. In silent march we passed the night, Each soldier panting for the fight, Though quite benumbed with frost. Greene on the left at six began, The right was led by Sullivan Who ne'er a moment lost. Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread, That rebels risen from the dead Were marching into town. Some scampered here, some scampered there, And some for action did prepare; But soon their arms laid down. Twelve hundred servile miscreants, With all their colors, guns, and tents, Were trophies of the day. The frolic o'er, the bright canteen, In centre, front, and rear was seen Driving fatigue away. Now, brothers of the patriot bands, Let's sing deliverance from the hands Of arbitrary sway. And as our life is but a span, Let's touch the tankard while we can. In memory of that day. (From Griswold's "Curiosities of American Literature.") When Jack the king's commander Was going to his duty, Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed To every blooming beauty. The city rung with feats he'd done In Portugal and Flanders, And all the town thought he'd be crowned The first of Alexanders. To Hampton Court he first repairs To kiss great George's hand, sirs; Then to harangue on state affairs Before he left the land, sirs. The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse To hear his grand oration; And "all the peers," with loudest cheers, Proclaimed him to the nation. Then off he went to Canada, Next to Ticonderoga, And quitting those away he goes Straightway to Saratoga. With great parade his march he made To gain his wished-for station, While far and wide his minions hied To spread his "Proclamation." To such as stayed he offers made Of "pardon on submission; But savage bands should waste the lands Of all in opposition." But ah, the cruel fates of war! This boasted son of Britain, When mounting his triumphal car, With sudden fear was smitten. The sons of Freedom gathered round, His hostile bands confounded, And when they'd fain have turned their back They found themselves surrounded! In vain they fought, in vain they fled; Their chief, humane and tender, To save the rest soon thought it best His forces to surrender. Brave St. Clair, when he first retired, Knew what the fates portended; And Arnold and heroic Gates His conduct have defended. Thus may America's brave sons With honor be rewarded, And be the fate of all her foes The same as here recorded. (McCarty's National Song-Book.) Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! These rebels their course very quickly will rue, And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew, When him who is your leader they know, boys! They with, men have now to deal, And we soon will make them feel— Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel, Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys! Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys! As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame, He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flame No lack of skill, but fates, Shall make us yield to Gates, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys! The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States, But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys! Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys! (As sung during the Revolution.) By JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWARD. Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity, By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea, Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on, Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington. Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came, Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame, Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on, And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington! Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good, You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood. Like Esop's greedy cur you'll gain a shadow for your bone, Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington. Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible! The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal, Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown, And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington! Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat, Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet, And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town, You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington! Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled, Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world? The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown, Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington! Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swords To rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords, 'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son, From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington. For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire, Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire. Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon, America or Albion, a George or Washington! Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise, To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies; And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down, Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington! Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply, And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one, While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington! Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears, To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears, And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won, Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington! Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere, While every warlike nation would court alliance here; And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his throne Pay homage to America and glorious Washington! By TIMOTHY DWIGHT. (From Kettell's "Specimens," 1829. Written during the author's service as an army chaplain, 1777-78.) Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies; Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendor unfold, Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil most inviting thy clime; Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name, Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame. To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire; Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend, A world is thy realm: for a world be thy laws, Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, And the east see the morn hide the beams of her star. New bards, and new sages, unrivalled shall soar To fame unextinguished, when time is no more; To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind; Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, And genius and beauty in harmony blend; The graces of form shall awake pure desire, And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind, With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, And light up a smile in the aspect of woe. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire and the ocean obey; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow; While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed, The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired; Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along, And a voice as of angels, enchantingly sung: "Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, "The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." By PETER ST. JOHN, of Norwalk, Conn. [In Moore's "Songs and Ballads of the Revolution," this poem bears date as of 1765, but the references in it to Burgoyne's surrender, to Brandywine, etc., indicate a much later date. It is possible that a part of the poem was written and published about 1765, and that additions making reference to revolutionary incidents were made afterward. But, internal evidence renders even this assumption improbable, and suggests that the date Moore gives is the result of some mistake.—Editor.] While I relate my story, Americans give ear; Of Britain's fading glory You presently shall hear; I'll give a true relation, Attend to what I say Concerning the taxation Of North America. The cruel lords of Britain, Who glory in their shame, The project they have hit on They joyfully proclaim; 'Tis what they're striving after Our right to take away, And rob us of our charter In North America. There are two mighty speakers, Who rule in Parliament, Who ever have been seeking Some mischief to invent; 'Twas North, and Bute his father, The horrid plan did lay A mighty tax to gather In North America. They searched the gloomy regions Of the infernal pit, To find among their legions One who excelled in wit; To ask of him assistance, Or tell them how they may Subdue without resistance This North America. Old Satan the arch-traitor, Who rules the burning lake, Resolved a voyage to take; For the Britannic ocean He launches far away, To land he had no notion In North America. He takes his seat in Britain, It was his soul's intent Great George's throne to sit on And rule the Parliament; His comrades were pursuing A diabolic way, For to complete the ruin Of North America. He tried the art of magic To bring his schemes about, At length the gloomy project He artfully found out; The plan was long indulgÈd In a clandestine way, But lately was divulgÈd In North America. These subtle arch-combiners Addressed the British court, All three were undersigners Of this obscure report— That lieth far away Beyond the wide Atlantic, In North America. There is a wealthy people, Who sojourn in that land, Their churches all with steeples Most delicately stand: Their houses like the gilly, Are painted red and gay: They flourish like the lily In North America. Their land with milk and honey Continually doth flow, The want of food or money They seldom ever know: They heap up golden treasure, They have no debts to pay, They spend their time in pleasure In North America. On turkeys, fowls, and fishes, Most frequently they dine, With gold and silver dishes Their tables always shine. They crown their feasts with butter, They eat, and rise to play; In North America. With gold and silver laces They do themselves adorn, The rubies deck their faces, Refulgent as the morn: Wine sparkles in their glasses, They spend each happy day In merriment and dances In North America. Let not our suit affront you, When we address your throne; O King, this wealthy country And subjects are your own, And you, their rightful sovereign They truly must obey, You have a right to govern This North America. O King, you've heard the sequel Of what we now subscribe: Is it not just and equal To tax this wealthy tribe? The question being askÈd, His majesty did say, My subjects shall be taxÈd In North America. Invested with a warrant, My publicans shall go, The tenth of all their current They surely shall bestow; If they indulge rebellion, Or from my precepts stray, I'll send my war battalion To North America. I'll rally all my forces By water and by land, My light dragoons and horses Shall go at my command; I'll burn both town and city, With smoke becloud the day, I'll show no human pity For North America. Go on, my hearty soldiers, You need not fear of ill— There's Hutchinson and Rogers, Their functions will fulfill— They tell such ample stories, Believe them sure we may, One half of them are tories In North America. My gallant ships are ready To waft you o'er the flood, Which is supremely good. Go ravage, steal, and plunder, And you shall have the prey; They quickly will knock under In North America. The laws I have enacted I never will revoke, Although they are neglected, My fury to provoke. I will forbear to flatter, I'll rule the mighty sway, I'll take away the charter From North America. O George! you are distracted, You'll by experience find The laws you have enacted Are of the blackest kind. I'll make a short digression, And tell you by the way, We fear not your oppression In North America. Our fathers were distressÈd While in their native land; By tyrants were oppressÈd As we do understand; They were resolved to stray, And trace the desert regions Of North America. Heaven was their sole protector While on the roaring tide, Kind fortune their director, And providence their guide. If I am not mistaken, About the first of May, This voyage was undertaken For North America. If rightly I remember, This country to explore, They landed in November On Plymouth's desert shore. The savages were nettled, With fear they fled away, So peaceably they settled In North America. We are their bold descendants, For liberty we'll fight, The claim to independence We challenge as our right; 'T is what kind Heaven gave us, Who can take it away? In North America. We never will knock under, O George! we do not fear The rattling of your thunder, Nor lightning of your spear; Though rebels you declare us, We're strangers to dismay; Therefore you cannot scare us In North America. To what you have commanded We never will consent, Although your troops are landed Upon our continent; We'll take our swords and muskets, And march in dread array, And drive the British red-coats From North America. We have a bold commander, Who fears not sword or gun, The second Alexander, His name is Washington. His men are all collected, And ready for the fray, To fight they are directed For North America. We've Greene, and Gates, and Putnam, To manage in the field, A gallant train of footmen, Who'd rather die than yield; A stately troop of horsemen Trained in a martial way, For to augment our forces In North America. Proud George, you are engagÈd All in a dirty cause, A cruel war have wagÈd Repugnant to all laws. Go tell the savage nations You're crueler than they, To fight your own relations In North America. Ten millions you've expended, And twice ten millions more; Our riches you intended Should pay the mighty score. Who now will stand your sponsor, Your charges to defray? For sure you cannot conquer This North America. I'll tell you, George, in metre, If you'll attend awhile; From Sullivan's fair isle. At Monmouth, too, we gainÈd The honors of the day— The victory we obtainÈd For North America. Surely we were your betters Hard by the Brandywine; We laid him fast in fetters Whose name was John Burgoyne; We made your Howe to tremble With terror and dismay; True heroes we resemble, In North America. Confusion to the tories, That black infernal name In which Great Britain glories, Forever to her shame; We'll send each foul revolter To smutty Africa, Or noose him in a halter In North America. A health to our brave footmen, Who handle sword and gun, To Greene, and Gates, and Putnam, And conquering Washington; Their names be wrote in letters Which never will decay, On North America. Success unto our allies In Holland, France, and Spain, Who man their ships and galleys, Our freedom to maintain; May they subdue the rangers Of proud Britannia, And drive them from their anchors In North America. Success unto the Congress Of these United States, Who glory in the conquests Of Washington and Gates; To all, both land and seamen, Who glory in the day When we shall all be freemen In North America. Success to legislation, That rules with gentle hand, To trade and navigation By water and by land. May all with one opinion Our wholesome laws obey, Throughout this vast dominion Of North America. By FRANCIS HOPKINSON. (From "The Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings," 1792.) [This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. Certain machines in the form of kegs, charged with gunpowder, were sent down the river to annoy the British shipping then at Philadelphia. The danger of these machines being discovered, the British manned the wharfs and shipping, and discharged their small-arms and cannons at every thing they saw floating in the river during the ebb tide.—Author's Note.] Gallants attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty, Strange things I'll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city. 'T was early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising. As in amaze he stood to gaze, The truth can't be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir. A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damned his eyes, in great surprise, Then said: "Some mischief's brewing. "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, Packed up like pickled herring; And they're come down to attack the town, In this new way of ferrying." The soldier flew, the sailor too, And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir. Now up and down throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and others there, Like men almost distracted. Some fire cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quakÈd; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half nakÈd. Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a snoring, Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, ***** Now in a fright, he starts upright, Awaked by such a clatter; He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries: For God's sake, what's the matter? At his bedside he then espied, Sir Erskine at command, sir, Upon one foot he had one boot, And th' other in his hand, sir. "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, "The rebels—more's the pity, Without a boat are afloat, And ranged before the city. "The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, sir, Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, sir. "Therefore prepare for bloody war, These kegs must all be routed Or surely we despised shall be, And British courage doubted." The royal band now ready stand All ranged in dread array, sir, With stomach stout to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir. The cannons roar from shore to shore, The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle. The rebel dales, the rebel vales With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded. The fish below swam to and fro, Attacked from every quarter; Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, 'Mongst folks above the water. The kegs, 't is said, though strongly made, Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, The conquering British troops, sir. From morn to night these men of might Displayed amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retired to sup their porridge. A hundred men with each a pen, Or more upon my word, sir, It is most true would be too few, Their valor to record, sir. Such feats did they perform that day, Against these wicked kegs, sir, That years to come, if they get home, They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. By GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER. In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon shot; When the files Of the isles From the smoky night-encampment bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle breakers o'er the green sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red Saint George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm drift, With hot, sweeping anger, came the horse guard's clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white, infernal Powder cloud; And his broad sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Then the blue Bullets flew And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six-pounder Hurling death! [Descriptive of the daring bravery of Captain John Paul Jones, in his cruise in the Irish Channel in 1778.] (From Admiral Luce's "Naval Songs.") 'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,— With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale, On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale. It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head. There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track. The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower. The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set Her spanker and her standing jib—the courses being fast; And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast. What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? 'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind a-breast the old Saltee's, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past— "Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!" Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark. "Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet," And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet, And a-midst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day. PAUL JONES' VICTORY(Battle between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis, September 23, 1779.) An American Frigate:—a frigate of fame, With guns mounting forty, The Richard by name, Sailed to cruise in the channels of old England, With a valiant commander, Paul Jones was his name. Hurrah! Hurrah! Our country forever, Hurrah! We had not cruised long, before he espies A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise; Well manned with bold seamen, well laid in with stores, In consort to drive us from old England's shores. Hurrah! Hurrah! Our country forever, Hurrah! About twelve at noon, Pearson came alongside, With a loud speaking trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried: "Return me an answer—I hailed you before, Or if you do not, a broadside I'll pour." Hurrah! Paul Jones then said to his men, every one, "Let every true seaman stand firm to his gun! We'll receive a broadside from this bold Englishman, And like true Yankee sailors, return it again." Hurrah! The contest was bloody, both decks ran with gore, And the sea seemed to blaze, while the cannon did roar. "Fight on, my brave boys," then Paul Jones he cried, "And soon we will humble this bold Englishman's pride." Hurrah! "Stand firm to your quarters—your duty don't shun, The first one that shrinks, through the body I'll run, Though their force is superior, yet they shall know, What true, brave American seamen can do." Hurrah! The battle rolled on, till bold Pearson cried: "Have you yet struck your colors? then come alongside!" But so far from thinking that the battle was won, Brave Paul Jones replied: "I've not yet begun!" Hurrah! We fought them eight glasses, eight glasses so hot, Till seventy bold seamen lay dead on the spot. And ninety brave seamen lay stretched in their gore, While the pieces of cannon most fiercely did roar. Our gunner, in great fright to Captain Jones came, "We gain water quite fast and our side's in a flame." Then Paul Jones said in the height of his pride: "If we cannot do better, boys, sink alongside!" The Alliance bore down, and the Richard did rake, Which caused the bold hearts of our seamen to ache: Our shots flew so hot that they could not stand us long, And the undaunted Union-of-Britain came down. To us they did strike and their colors hauled down; The fame of Paul Jones to the world shall be known, His name shall rank with the gallant and brave, Who fought like a hero—our freedom to save. Now all valiant seamen where'er you may be, Who hear of this combat that's fought on the sea, May you all do like them, when called to do the same, And your names be enrolled on the pages of fame. Your country will boast of her sons that are brave, And to you she will look from all dangers to save, She'll call you dear sons, in her annals you'll shine, And the brows of the brave shall green laurels entwine. So now, my brave boys, have we taken a prize— A large 44, and a 20 likewise! Then God bless the mother whose doom is to weep The loss of her sons in the ocean so deep. 1813. By PHILIP FRENEAU. [In the year 1781, Prince William Henry (afterward William IV.), third son of George III., came to New York as a midshipman, accompanied by Admiral Digby. The tory authorities of the city overwhelmed the boy—he was just sixteen years old—with adulation, recording it as their conviction that his gracious presence in the country would shame the patriots out of their rebellion and win them to submission and loyalty.—Editor.] Prince William, of the Brunswick race, To witness George's sad disgrace The royal lad came over, Rebels to kill, by right divine— Derived from that industrious line, The beggars of Hanover. So many chiefs got broken pates In vanquishing the rebel states, So many nobles fell, That George the Third in passion cried: "Our royal blood must now be tried; 'Tis that must break the spell; "To you [the fat pot-valiant swain To Digby said], dear friend of mine, To you I trust my boy; The rebel tribes shall quake with fears, Rebellion die when he appears, My tories leap with joy." So said, so done—the lad was sent, But never reached the continent, An island held him fast— Yet there his friends danced rigadoons, The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes, "Prince William's come at last!" "Prince William's come!"—the Briton cried— "Our labors now will be repaid— Dominion be restored— Our monarch is in William seen, He is the image of our queen, Let William be adored!" The tories came with long address, With poems groaned the royal press, And all in William's praise— The youth, astonished, looked about To find their vast dominions out, Then answered in amaze: "Where all your vast domain can be, Friends, for my soul I cannot see; 'Tis but an empty name; Three wasted islands and a town In rubbish buried—half burnt down, Is all that we can claim; "I am of royal birth, 'tis true, But what, my sons, can princes do, No armies to command? Cornwallis conquered and distrest— Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest— I curse—and quit the land." TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS, UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781, AT EUTAW SPRINGS. By PHILIP FRENEAU. At Eutaw Springs the valiant died: Their limbs with dust are covered o'er— Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more! If in this wreck of ruin they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite thy gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here! Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted, rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear— They saw their injured country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear,—but left the shield. Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly; None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved, in such a cause to die— But, like the Parthian, famed of old, Who, flying still their arrows threw; These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew. Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own. By PHILIP FRENEAU. (Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.) When a certain great King, whose initial is G., Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea; When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble, You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble. But when a Petition he treads under feet, And sends over the ocean an army and fleet, When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage, Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage; When that leader goes home, dejected and sad; You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad. But when B. and C. with their armies are taken This King will do well if he saves his own bacon: In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue; When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive. In the year eighty-three, the affair will be over And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover; The face of the Lion will then become pale, He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail— O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore, From the Stars and the Stripes you will mercy implore, And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.— (Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.) Cornwallis led a country dance, The like was never seen, sir, Much retrograde and much advance, And all with General Greene, sir. They rambled up and rambled down, Joined hands, then off they run, sir, Our General Greene to Charlestown, The earl to Wilmington, sir. Greene in the South then danced a set, And got a mighty name, sir, Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette, But suffered in his fame, sir. Then down he figured to the shore, Most like a lordly dancer, And on his courtly honor swore He would no more advance, sir. Quoth he, my guards are weary grown With footing country dances, They never at St. James's shone, At capers, kicks or prances. Though men so gallant ne'er were seen, While sauntering on parade, sir, Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green, Or at a masquerade, sir. Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts, For stumps and briars meet, sir? Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts, Or hardy veteran feet, sir? Now housed in York, he challenged all, At minuet or all 'amande, And lessons for a courtly ball His guards by day and night conned. This challenge known, full soon there came, A set who had the bon ton, De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame Fut brillant pour un long tems. And Washington, Columbia's son, Whom easy nature taught, sir, That grace which can't by pains be won, Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir. Now hand in hand they circle round This ever-dancing peer, sir; Their gentle movements soon confound The earl as they draw near, sir. His music soon forgets to play— His feet can move no more, And all his bands now curse the day They jiggÈd to our shore, sir. Now Tories all, what can ye say? Come—is not this a griper, That while your hopes are danced away, 'Tis you must pay the piper? 1781. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [A very interesting bit of literary history attaches to this poem. The piece appeared in Mr. Bryant's first collected volume of poems about 1831. Mr. Bryant sent the volume, with a letter, to Washington Irving, then in London, with whom he had no personal acquaintance, and invoked his good offices in inducing Murray to bring out an English edition of the work. The time being peculiarly unpropitious, Murray declined to undertake the venture, but Irving found another publisher, and himself introduced the volume in the most favorable manner, with a dedicatory letter of his own. While passing the book through the press the publisher observed in this poem the lines: "The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told," and assured Irving that he could not offer a work containing such a statement to a British public. It was impossible to consult the author, three thousand miles away, and Irving ventured to change the objectionable passage so that it should read: "The foeman trembles in his camp When Marion's name is told." There is no reason to believe that Mr. Bryant ever resented the liberty or regarded it otherwise than as an act of friendly intervention; but some years later William Leggett, who had long been Mr. Bryant's editorial associate in the office of the Evening Post, but had severed his connection with that paper, made a virulent assault upon Irving in the Plaindealer on account of the change he had made, even going so far as to intimate that both that and his dealings with one of his own works were dictated by mean sycophancy and cowardice on Irving's part.—Editor.] SONG OF MARION'S MEN. Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us; As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads,— The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp— A moment—and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. By JOSEPH HOPKINSON. (First sung at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, in 1798.) [This song was inspired by the troubles with France, which threatened but did not actually result in open war. For convenience it is classed with the ballads and lyrics of the Revolution, to the actors in which its references point, though, strictly speaking, it belongs to none of the groups into which this collection is divided.—Editor.] Hail! Columbia, happy land! Hail! ye heroes, heav'n-born band, Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoyed the peace your valor won; Let independence be your boast, Ever mindful what it cost, Let its altar reach the skies. Chorus. Firm, united let us be, Rallying round our liberty, As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find. Immortal patriots, rise once more! Defend your rights, defend your shore; Let no rude foe with impious hand, Let no rude foe with impious hand Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize; While offering peace, sincere and just, In heav'n we place a manly trust, That truth and justice may prevail, And ev'ry scheme of bondage fail.—Chorus. Sound, sound the trump of fame! Let Washington's great name Ring thro' the world with loud applause! Ring thro' the world with loud applause! Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear Listen with a joyful ear; With equal skill, with steady pow'r, He governs in the fearful hour The happier time of honest peace.—Chorus. Behold the chief, who now commands, Once more to serve his country stands, The rock on which the storm will beat! The rock on which the storm will beat! But armed in virtue, firm and true, His hopes are fixed on heav'n and you. When hope was sinking in dismay, When gloom obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free, Resolved on death or liberty.—Chorus.
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