  FLAWLESS HIS HEART Flawless his heart and tempered to the core Who, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave, First left behind him the firm-footed shore, And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar, Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave, Of thought and action the mysterious door, Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave: Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun, And strange stars from beneath the horizon won, And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave: High-hearted surely he; But bolder they who first off-cast Their moorings from the habitable Past And ventured chartless on the sea Of storm-engendering Liberty: For all earth's width of waters is a span, And their convulsed existence mere repose, Matched with the unstable heart of man, Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows, Open to every wind of sect or clan, And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows. James Russell Lowell. CHAPTER ITHE COMING OF DISCONTENT
[May 2, 1766] Sure never was picture drawn more to the life, Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife, Than America copies and loves Britain's sons, Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns, "Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those men Who always are ready, steady, boys, steady, To fight for their freedom again and again." Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil, Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle; And who's so absurd to deny us the name, Since true British blood flows in every vein? "Hearts of Oak," etc. Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm, Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm; Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see, Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words are be free! "Hearts of Oak," etc. To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down, But hope we may call Magna Charta our own. Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree, Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free. "Hearts of Oak," etc. Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe, Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe; Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess, Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S. "Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those men Who fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon, To stop all oppression, again and again." On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear, What Englishmen ought we Americans dare; Though tempests and terrors around us we see, Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free. "Hearts of Oak," etc. With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine, Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine; Let us set an example, what all men should be, And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free." "Hearts of Oak," etc.
THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN OR, THE OLD WOMAN TAUGHT WISDOM [1767] Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out, Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a —— rout, But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told, Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold. The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head, That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread: Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance; But we're often too sanguine in what we advance. For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed, Nor should people reckon without their good host; The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to, And pray, what in this case could the old woman do? In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause, That the young one was able; her duty, the laws; Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse; But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse. Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty, She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty, That other folks' children were kept by their friends, And that some folks loved people but for their own ends. "Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter? A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;" "Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work, The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk." "She be ——," says the farmer, and to her he goes, First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose, "Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say; I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray. "Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here! You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear; Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon, You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden." "Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply? But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;" "Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree, You must surely be right, if you're guided by me." Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down, While the absolute farmer went on with a frown, "Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends! There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends." "No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied: "But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."
A SONG [January 26, 1769] Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band, In the cause of our country who join heart and hand; And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me." Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain: We always are ready— Steady, boys, steady— To give them our voices again and again. With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree, Unite all the good—and united are we: But still be the lot of the villains disgrace, Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face. Hearts of oak, etc. See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws! His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws— As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk, My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk. Hearts of oak, etc. First—the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause, Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause— Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name, And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame. Hearts of oak, etc. To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound! With health and success may his goodness be crown'd: May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er— For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor! Hearts of oak, etc. What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free, But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey? "Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here! Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere." Hearts of oak, etc. For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd, Let the name and applauses of Walton go round: His prudence attracts—but his free, honest soul Gives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole. Hearts of oak, etc. Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried— Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride: Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue, With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true. Hearts of oak, etc. New York Journal, January 26, 1769.
[February, 1770] Two regiments of British troops arrived at Boston on March 5, 1768, and annoyed the people in many ways. Brawls were frequent, and by the beginning of 1770 the tension of feeling had reached the snapping point. The "Massachusetts Liberty Song" and "The British Grenadier" did not go well together. THE BRITISH GRENADIER Come, come fill up your glasses, And drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, And wear their looped clothes. For be you Whig or Tory, Or any mortal thing, Be sure that you give glory To George, our gracious King. For if you prove rebellious, He'll thunder in your ears Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! For the British Grenadiers! And when the wars are over, We'll march by beat of drum, The ladies cry "So, Ho girls, The Grenadiers have come! The Grenadiers who always With love our hearts do cheer. Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! For the British Grenadier!"
[March 5, 1770] Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story? Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory. But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride, If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died. Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name— With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in flame? Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny; We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die— As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made; That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid! When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their aim; Men see what the royal hirelings saw—a multitude and a flame; But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street, While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet! O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race! Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place; The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas; Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies; Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul— Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all! One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken, There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men! But alien is one—of class, not race—he has drawn the line for himself; His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf; He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue: Patrician, aristocrat, Tory—whatever his age or name, To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same. The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme; The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime. Wherever the race, the law, the land,—whatever the time or throne, The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own. Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks apart; Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart; Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are bled, That the bluest blood is putrid blood—that the people's blood is red! And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day; The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray. Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown; His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down; His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow; For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low. Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may, Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for aye. They were lawless hinds to the lackeys—but martyrs to Paul Revere; And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear. Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock; When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock; When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse; When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse; When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde— Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword? Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here! By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere! Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight! By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate! By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still! By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill! Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread; The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead. There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet, The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete; There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives— The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves! There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good? There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood; There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows; There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows; There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster, The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master! Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved, And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved? His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's years, Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears. Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute. His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward; His love!—O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord; Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave; For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave! And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled? Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage stilled? And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's soul? Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole? That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed? That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed? Has he learned—the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were sold—has he, With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!" Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks knew— When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two? Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand years In blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and tears Were heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to stand From the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land? That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human van Which others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong began? For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn, Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his turn; For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night; For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light; For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right. And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day; The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way; God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought; And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought! John Boyle O'Reilly.
UNHAPPY BOSTON [March 8, 1770] Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deplore Thy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore. While faithless Preston and his savage bands, With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands; Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey, Approve the carnage and enjoy the day. If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung, If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue, Or if a weeping world can aught appease The plaintive ghosts of victims such as these; The patriot's copious tears for each are shed, A glorious tribute which embalms the dead. But know, Fate summons to that awful goal, Where justice strips the murderer of his soul: Should venal C——ts, the scandal of the land, Snatch the relentless villain from her hand, Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'd Shall reach a judge who never can be bribed. Paul Revere.
ALAMANCE [May 7, 1771] No stately column marks the hallowed place Where silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust: The first free martyrs of a glorious race, Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust. The rustic ploughman at the early morn The yielding furrow turns with heedless tread, Or tends with frugal care the springing corn, Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled. Above their rest the golden harvest waves, The glorious stars stand sentinels on high, While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves, The winding river murmurs, mourning, by. No stern ambition moved them to the deed: In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die. The first to conquer, or the first to bleed, "God and their country's right" their battle cry. But holier watchers here their vigils keep Than storied urn or monumental stone; For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep, And Plenty smiles above their bloody home. Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame; And as their country's glories shall advance, Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name, Thou first-fought field of Freedom—Alamance. Seymour W. Whiting.
[June 9-10, 1772] 'Twas in the reign of George the Third The public peace was much disturb'd By ships of war, that came and laid Within our ports to stop our trade. In seventeen hundred seventy-two, In Newport harbor lay a crew That play'd the parts of pirates there, The sons of Freedom could not bear. Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase— Such actions, sure, were very base; No honest coasters could pass by But what they would let some shot fly. Which did provoke to high degree Those true-born sons of Liberty, So that they could no longer bear Those sons of Belial staying there. But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out, That William Doddington so stout, Commander of the Gaspee tender, Which he had reason to remember— Because, as people do assert, He almost had his just desert Here, on the tenth day of last June, Between the hours of twelve and one— Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah, Of whom one Linsey was commander; They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound, And there the rascal got aground. The news of it flew, that very day, That they on Nanquit Point did lay, That night, about half after ten, Some Narragansett Indian-men— Being sixty-four, if I remember, Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender: And what was best of all their tricks, They in his breech a ball did fix. They set the men upon the land, And burn'd her up, we understand; Which thing provoked the king so high, He said, "those men should surely die." So, if he can but find them out, The hangman he'll employ, no doubt: For he has declared, in his passion, "He'll have them tried in a new fashion." Now for to find those people out, King George has offered, very stout, One thousand pounds to find out one That wounded William Doddington. One thousand more he says he'll spare, For those who say they sheriffs were: One thousand more there doth remain For to find out the leader's name. Likewise, one hundred pounds per man, For any one of all the clan. But let him try his utmost skill, I'm apt to think he never will Find out any of those hearts of gold, Though he should offer fifty fold.
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY [December 16, 1773] No! never such a draught was poured Since Hebe served with nectar The bright Olympians and their Lord, Her over-kind protector,— Since Father Noah squeezed the grape And took to such behaving As would have shamed our grandsire ape Before the days of shaving,— No! ne'er was mingled such a draught In palace, hall, or arbor, As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed That night in Boston Harbor! It kept King George so long awake His brain at last got addled, It made the nerves of Britain shake, With sevenscore millions saddled; Before that bitter cup was drained Amid the roar of cannon, The Western war-cloud's crimson stained The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon; Full many a six-foot grenadier The flattened grass had measured, And many a mother many a year Her tearful memories treasured; Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall, The mighty realms were troubled, The storm broke loose, but first of all The Boston teapot bubbled! An evening party,—only that, No formal invitation, No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat, No feast in contemplation, No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band, No flowers, no songs, no dancing,— A tribe of red men, axe in hand,— Behold the guests advancing! How fast the stragglers join the throng, From stall and workshop gathered! The lively barber skips along And leaves a chin half-lathered; The smith has flung his hammer down,— The horseshoe still is glowing; The truant tapster at the Crown Has left a beer-cask flowing; The cooper's boys have dropped the adze, And trot behind their master; Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,— The crowd is hurrying faster,— Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush The streams of white-faced millers, And down their slippery alleys rush The lusty young Fort-Hillers; The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,— The tories seize the omen: "Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do For England's rebel foemen, 'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang, That fire the mob with treason,— When these we shoot and those we hang The town will come to reason." On—on to where the tea-ships ride! And now their ranks are forming,— The Mohawk band is swarming! See the fierce natives! What a glimpse Of paint and fur and feather, As all at once the full-grown imps Light on the deck together! A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps, A blanket hides the breeches,— And out the cursÈd cargo leaps, And overboard it pitches! O woman, at the evening board So gracious, sweet, and purring, So happy while the tea is poured, So blest while spoons are stirring, What martyr can compare with thee, The mother, wife, or daughter, That night, instead of best Bohea, Condemned to milk and water! Ah, little dreams the quiet dame Who plies with rock and spindle The patient flax, how great a flame Yon little spark shall kindle! The lurid morning shall reveal A fire no king can smother Where British flint and Boston steel Have clashed against each other! Old charters shrivel in its track, His Worship's bench has crumbled, It climbs and clasps the union-jack, Its blazoned pomp is humbled, The flags go down on land and sea Like corn before the reapers; So burned the fire that brewed the tea That Boston served her keepers! The waves that wrought a century's wreck Have rolled o'er whig and tory; The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck Still live in song and story; The waters in the rebel bay Have kept the tea-leaf savor; Our old North-Enders in their spray Still taste a Hyson flavor; And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows With ever fresh libations, To cheat of slumber all her foes And cheer the wakening nations! Oliver Wendell Holmes.
A NEW SONG [December 16, 1773] As near beauteous Boston lying, On the gently swelling flood, Without jack or pendant flying, Three ill-fated tea-ships rode. Just as glorious Sol was setting, On the wharf, a numerous crew, Sons of freedom, fear forgetting, Suddenly appeared in view. Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels, Weapons new for warlike deed, Towards the herbage-freighted vessels, They approached with dreadful speed. O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky, Three bright angel forms were seen; This was Hampden, that was Sidney, With fair Liberty between. "Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish, Soon the triumph shall be won; Scarce shall setting Phoebus vanish, Ere the deathless deed be done." Quick as thought the ships were boarded, Hatches burst and chests displayed; Axes, hammers help afforded; What a glorious crash they made. Squash into the deep descended, Cursed weed of China's coast; Thus at once our fears were ended; British rights shall ne'er be lost. Captains! once more hoist your streamers, Spread your sails, and plough the wave; Tell your masters they were dreamers, When they thought to cheat the brave.
HOW WE BECAME A NATION [April 15, 1774] When George the King would punish folk Who dared resist his angry will— Resist him with their hearts of oak That neither King nor Council broke— He told Lord North to mend his quill, And sent his Parliament a Bill. The Boston Port Bill was the thing He flourished in his royal hand; A subtle lash with scorpion sting, Across the seas he made it swing, And with its cruel thong he planned To quell the disobedient land. His minions heard it sing, and bare The port of Boston felt his wrath; They let no ship cast anchor there, They summoned Hunger and Despair,— And curses in an aftermath Followed their desolating path. No coal might enter there, nor wood, Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France; No drugs for dying pangs, no food For any mother's little brood. "Now," said the King, "we have our chance, We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance." No other flags lit up the bay, Like full-blown blossoms in the air, Than where the British war-ships lay; The wharves were idle; all the day The idle men, grown gaunt and spare, Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere. Then in across the meadow land, From lonely farm and hunter's tent, From fertile field and fallow strand, Pouring it out with lavish hand, The neighboring burghs their bounty sent, And laughed at King and Parliament. To bring them succor, Marblehead Joyous her deep-sea fishing sought. Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread, Old many-rivered Newbury sped, And Groton in her granaries wrought, And generous flocks old Windham brought. Rice from the Carolinas came, Iron from Pennsylvania's forge, And, with a spirit all aflame, Tobacco-leaf and corn and game The Midlands sent; and in his gorge The Colonies defied King George! And Hartford hung, in black array, Her town-house, and at half-mast there The flags flowed, and the bells all day Tolled heavily; and far away In great Virginia's solemn air The House of Burgesses held prayer. Down long glades of the forest floor The same thrill ran through every vein, And down the long Atlantic's shore; Its heat the tyrant's fetters tore And welded them through stress and strain Of long years to a mightier chain. That mighty chain with links of steel Bound all the Old Thirteen at last, Through one electric pulse to feel The common woe, the common weal. And that great day the Port Bill passed Made us a nation hard and fast. Harriet Prescott Spofford.
A PROCLAMATION [May, 1774] America! thou fractious nation, Attend thy master's proclamation! Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage, Determin'd come the war to wage. With the united powers sent forth, Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North; To scourge your insolence, my choice, While England mourns and Scots rejoice! Bostonia first shall feel my power, And gasping midst the dreadful shower Of ministerial rage, shall cry, Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die. Then shall my thundering cannons rattle, My hardy veterans march to battle, Against Virginia's hostile land, To humble that rebellious band. At my approach her trembling swains Shall quit well-cultivated plains, To seek the inhospitable wood; Or try, like swine of old, the flood. Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice! Your voice lift up, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness on each tongue, The mighty praise of Bute be sung. The praise of Mansfield, and of North, Let next your hymns of joy set forth, Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage, Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage. Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on. Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won! Your Gage has won Virginia's shore, And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more. Hail, Middlesex! oh happy county! Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty, Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear, Thy wives and widows drop no tear. Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feel The force of unrelenting steel; What brute would give the ox a stroke Who bends his neck to meet the yoke? To Murray bend the humble knee; He shall protect you under me; His generous pen shall not be mute, But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute. By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught, By all your country Scotchmen thought; Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me, And be as blest as slaves can be. The Virginia Gazette, 1774.
THE BLASTED HERB [1774] Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind, The rising danger flee, If you would lasting freedom find, Now then abandon tea. Scorn to be bound with golden chains, Though they allure the sight; Bid them defiance, if they claim Our freedom and birthright. Shall we our freedom give away, And all our comfort place, In drinking of outlandish tea, Only to please our taste? Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise, And seek our country's good; Nor ever let a thought arise That tea should be our food. Since we so great a plenty have, Of all that's for our health, Shall we that blasted herb receive, Impoverishing our wealth? When we survey the breathless corpse, With putrid matter filled, For crawling worms a sweet resort, By us reputed ill. Noxious effluvia sending out From its pernicious store, Not only from the foaming mouth, But every lifeless pore. To view the same enrolled in tea, Besmeared with such perfumes, And then the herb sent o'er the sea, To us it tainted comes— Some of it tinctured with a filth Of carcasses embalmed; Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt! Sure me it cannot charm. Adieu! away, oh tea! begone! Salute our taste no more; Though thou art coveted by some, Who're destined to be poor. Fowle's Gazette, July 22, 1774. EPIGRAM ON THE POOR OF BOSTON BEING EMPLOYED IN PAVING THE STREETS, 1774 It was plain that, in this crisis, the colonies must stick together, and the proposal for a Continental Congress, first made by the Sons of Liberty in New York, was approved by colony after colony, and the Congress was finally called to meet at Philadelphia, September 1. THE DAUGHTER'S REBELLION When fair Columbia was a child, And mother Britain on her smil'd With kind regard, and strok'd her head, And gave her dolls and gingerbread, And sugar plumbs, and many a toy, Which prompted gratitude and joy— Then a more duteous maid, I ween, Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green; Whate'er the mother said, approv'd, And with sincere affection lov'd— With reverence listen'd to her dreams, And bowed obsequious to her schemes— Barter'd the products of her garden, For trinkets, worth more than a farthing— And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd, She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd, Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath, Betoken'd her approaching death. But when at puberty arriv'd, Forgot the power in whom she liv'd, And 'gan to make preposterous splutter, 'Bout spreading her own bread and butter, And stubbornly refus'd t' agree, In form, to drink her bohea-tea, And like a base, ungrateful daughter, Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water— 'Bout writing paper made a pother, And dared to argue with her mother— Contended pertly, that the nurse, Should not be keeper of the purse; But that herself, now older grown, Would have a pocket of her own, In which the purse she would deposit, As safely as in nurse's closet. Francis Hopkinson.
ON THE SNAKE DEPICTED AT THE HEAD OF SOME AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to pass That America's typ'd by a Snake—in the grass? Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection, That merits the soundest, severest correction? New-England's the Head, too;—New-England's abus'd, For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd. From Rivington's New York Gazetteer, August 25, 1774.
FREE AMERICA [1774] 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, 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, The wretch that would ensnare you, 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. Joseph Warren.
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. Thomas Paine. Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.
THE MOTHER COUNTRY [1775] We have an old mother that peevish is grown; She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone; She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own; Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny. If we don't obey orders, whatever the case, She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati- Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face; Which nobody, etc. Her orders so odd are, we often suspect That age has impaired her sound intellect; But still an old mother should have due respect; Which nobody, etc. Let's bear with her humors as well as we can; But why should we bear the abuse of her man? When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan; Which nobody, etc. Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divide The sons from the mother, that still she's our pride; And if ye attack her, we're all of her side; Which nobody, etc. We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all those Who, to get what she has, will be often her foes; For we know it must all be our own, when she goes; Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny. Benjamin Franklin.
PENNSYLVANIA SONG We are the troop that ne'er will stoop To wretched slavery, Nor shall our seed, by our base deed, DespisÈd vassals be; Freedom we will bequeath to them, Or we will bravely die; Our greatest foe, ere long shall know, How much did Sandwich lie. And all the world shall know, Americans are free; Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove, Great Britain soon shall see. We'll not give up our birthright, Our foes shall find us men; As good as they, in any shape, The British troops shall ken. Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat them On any hostile plain; For Freedom, wives, and children dear, The battle we'll maintain. And all the world, etc. What! can those British tyrants think, Our fathers cross'd the main, And savage foes, and dangers met, To be enslav'd by them? If so, they are mistaken, For we will rather die; And since they have become our foes, Their forces we defy. And all the world, etc. Dunlap's Packet, 1775.
MARYLAND RESOLVES [December, 1774] On Calvert's plains new faction reigns, Great Britain we defy, sir, True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains, Though freedom is the cry, sir. The Congress, and their factious tools, Most wantonly oppress us, Hypocrisy triumphant rules, And sorely does distress us. The British bands with glory crown'd, No longer shall withstand us; Our martial deeds loud fame shall sound Since mad Lee now commands us. Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike, That all the world shall awe, sir, And General Gage, Sir Perseus like, Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir. When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men, Our race meant to extermine, Pray did committees save us then, Or Hancock, or such vermin? Then faction spurn! think for yourselves! Your parent state, believe me, From real griefs, from factious elves, Will speedily relieve ye. Rivington's Gazetteer.
Come swallow your bumpers, ye Tories, and roar That the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more; But know that no Cut-throats our spirits can tame, Nor a host of Oppressors shall smother the flame. In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave, Will never surrender, But swear to defend her, And scorn to survive, if unable to save. Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear, Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear; Through deaths and through dangers their Trophies they won, We dare be their Rivals, nor will be outdone. In Freedom we're born, etc. Let tyrants and minions presume to despise, Encroach on our Rights, and make Freedom their prize; The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep, Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep. In Freedom we're born, etc. The tree which proud Haman for Mordecai rear'd Stands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared; That rogues, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain, Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again. In Freedom we're born, etc. Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall know Those who dare to be free shall forever be so; On these arms and these hearts they may safely rely For in freedom we'll live, or like Heroes we'll die. In Freedom we're born, etc. Ye insolent Tyrants! who wish to enthrall; Ye Minions, ye Placemen, Pimps, Pensioners, all; How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust, Your honor must wither and nod to the dust. In Freedom we're born, etc. When oppress'd and approach'd, our King we implore, Still firmly persuaded our Rights he'll restore; When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right, Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight. In Freedom we're born, etc. Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a fray Could make us submit to their chains for a day; Withheld by affection, on Britons we call, Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall. In Freedom we're born, etc. All ages should speak with amaze and applause Of the prudence we show in support of our cause: Assured of our safety, a Brunswick still reigns, Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains. In Freedom we're born, etc. Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all, To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall; Has the land such a dastard as scorns not a Lord, Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword? In Freedom we're born, etc. Attributed to Mrs. Mercy Warren. EPIGRAM Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger, Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her. Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aid And give Master John a severe bastinade. Now, good men of the law, who is at fault, The one who begins or resists the assault? Anderson's Constitutional Gazette, 1775. O Boston wives and maids, draw near and see Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea, Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown, If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town. St. James Chronicle.
"PROPHECY" [1774] Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat, Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great, But wealth and power have no immortal day, For all things ripen only to decay. And when that time arrives, the lot of all, When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall; Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decree In other worlds another Britain see, And what thou art, America shall be. Gulian Verplanck. CHAPTER IITHE BURSTING OF THE STORM
[April 18-19, 1775] 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, 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 rowed 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 climbed 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, Wrapped 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 place and the hour, and the secret dread 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 spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched 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: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, 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 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 passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, 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 farm-yard 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 forevermore! 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WHAT'S IN A NAME? I am a wandering, bitter shade; Never of me was a hero made; Poets have never sung my praise, Nobody crowned my brow with bays; And if you ask me the fatal cause, I answer only, "My name was Dawes." 'Tis all very well for the children to hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere; But why should my name be quite forgot, Who rode as boldly and well, God wot? Why should I ask? The reason is clear— My name was Dawes and his Revere. When the lights from the old North Church flashed out, Paul Revere was waiting about, But I was already on my way. The shadows of night fell cold and gray As I rode, with never a break or pause; But what was the use, when my name was Dawes? History rings with his silvery name; Closed to me are the portals of fame. Had he been Dawes and I Revere, No one had heard of him, I fear. No one has heard of me because He was Revere and I was Dawes. Helen F. More.
LEXINGTON [April 19, 1775] From "Psalm of the West" O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark: Climb, patriot, through the April dark. O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light, Thou budding star in the April night, For never a star more news hath told, Or later flame in heaven shall hold. Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower, When that thy church hath had her hour, Still from the top of Reverence high Shalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky; For, statured large o'er town and tree, And, dim as now thy wick may shine, The Future lights his lamp at thine. Now haste thee while the way is clear, Paul Revere! Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun! To Lexington. Then Devens looked and saw the light: He got him forth into the night, And watched alone on the river-shore, And marked the British ferrying o'er. John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn, But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn! Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose: The Morning comes ere darkness goes. Have forth and call the yeomen out, For somewhere, somewhere close about Full soon a Thing must come to be Thine honest eyes shall stare to see— Full soon before thy patriot eyes Freedom from out of a Wound shall rise. Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere! Bring all the men of Lincoln here; Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle, Let Acton, Bedford, hither file— Oh hither file, and plainly see Out of a wound leap Liberty. Say, Woodman April! all in green, Say, Robin April! hast thou seen In all thy travel round the earth Ever a morn of calmer birth? But Morning's eye alone serene Can gaze across yon village-green To where the trooping British run Through Lexington. Good men in fustian, stand ye still; The men in red come o'er the hill. Lay down your arms, damned Rebels! cry The men in red full haughtily. But never a grounding gun is heard; The men in fustian stand unstirred; Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird Puts in his little heavenly word. O men in red! if ye but knew The half as much as bluebirds do, Now in this little tender calm Each hand would out, and every palm With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke Or ere these lines of battle broke. O men in red! if ye but knew The least of the all that bluebirds do, Now in this little godly calm Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm— The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes Who pardons and is very wise— Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, Fire! The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall: The homespuns' anxious voices call, Brother, art hurt? and Where hit, John? And, Wipe this blood, and, Men, come on, And, Neighbor, do but lift my head, And, Who is wounded? Who is dead? Seven are killed. My God! my God! Seven lie dead on the village sod. Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown, Monroe and Porter,—these are down. Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead! He crooks his elbow, lifts his head. He lies at the step of his own house-door; He crawls and makes a path of gore. The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed; He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed; He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door, But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more. Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head: Harrington lies at his doorstep dead. But, O ye Six that round him lay And bloodied up that April day! As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell— At the door of the House wherein ye dwell; As Harrington came, ye likewise came And died at the door of your House of Fame. Sidney Lanier. LEXINGTON [April 19, 1775] Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing! Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet! Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum. Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath,— Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Never to shadow his cold brow again; Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Many a belted breast Low on the turf shall rest Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; Far as the tempest thrills Over the darkened hills, Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, Roused by the tyrant band, Woke all the mighty land, Girdled for battle, from mountain to main. Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying! Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. Borne on her Northern pine, Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Heaven keep her ever free, Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won! Oliver Wendell Holmes.
[April 19, 1775] THE KING'S OWN REGULARS AND THEIR TRIUMPH OVER THE IRREGULARS Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay, I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray; So I'll sing you a song,—as a body may say, 'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away. Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars. At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day, We marshalled ourselves all in comely array; Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay, But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away. At Falkirk we resolved to be braver, And recover some credit by better behavior: We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor, So feet swore they would stand, but—legs ran however. No troops perform better than we at reviews, We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose, George would see how we fight, and we never refuse, There we all fight with courage—you may see 't in the news. To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums, We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs; That great expedition cost infinite sums, But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs. It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees, If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should have beat them with ease, They may fight with one another that way if they please, But it is not regular to stand, and fight with such rascals as these. At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation, We show'd our vast skill in fortification; The French fired three guns;—of the fourth they had no occasion; For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion. To Ticonderoga we went in a passion, Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation; But we soon turned tail, without hesitation, Because they fought behind trees, which is not the regular fashion. Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say; With a great regular army he went on his way, But returned—without seeing it,—for he didn't feel bold that day. Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest, Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed, He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none, So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own. The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't fight, And so he sent us over to take away their right; But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder, For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder. Our general with his council of war did advise How at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise; We march'd—and re-marched—all surprised—at being beat; And so our wise general's plan of surprise—was complete. For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger; But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor? For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition; 'Twas not in going out, but in returning, consisted our EXPEDITION. Says our general, "We were forced to take to our arms in our defence (For arms read legs, and it will be both truth and sense), Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility, And that is—'I can never enough praise him for his great—agility.'" Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother; Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other; Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace us, 'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees—could not face us. As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face? We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace. That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case; For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race. Pennsylvania Evening Post, March 30, 1776.
MORGAN STANWOOD CAPE ANN, 1775 Morgan Stanwood, patriot! Little more is known; Nothing of his home is left But the door-step stone. Morgan Stanwood, to our thought You return once more; Once again the meadows lift Daisies to your door. Once again the morn is sweet, Half the hay is down,— Hark! what means that sudden clang From the distant town? Larum bell and rolling drum Answer sea-borne guns; Larum bell and rolling drum Summon Freedom's sons! And the mower thinks to him Cry both bell and drum, "Morgan Stanwood, where art thou? Here th' invaders come!" "Morgan Stanwood" need no more Bell and drum-beat call; He is one who, hearing once, Answers once for all. Ne'er the mower murmured then, "Half my grass is mown, Homespun isn't soldier-wear, Each may save his own." Fallen scythe and aftermath Lie forgotten now; Winter need may come and find But a barren mow. Down the musket comes. "Good wife,— Wife, a quicker flint!" And the face that questions face Hath no color in 't. "Wife, if I am late to-night, Milk the heifer first;— Ruth, if I'm not home at all,— Worse has come to worst." Morgan Stanwood sped along, Not the common road; Over wall and hill-top straight, Straight to death, he strode; Leaving her to hear at night Tread of burdened men, By the gate and through the gate, At the door, and then— Ever after that to hear, When the grass is sweet, Through the gate and through the night, Slowly coming feet. Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone; Here the door-step lies; One may stand thereon and think,— For the thought will rise,— Were we where the meadow was, Mowing grass alone, Would we go the way he went, From this very stone? Were we on the door-step here, Parting for a day, Would we utter words as though Parting were for aye? Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear, Meadow-math is sweet; Parting be as parting may, After all, we meet. Hiram Rich.
THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO' [April 19, 1775] 'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud; 'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood; When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed— A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need! And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood, Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed. The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State; They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say, Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate: "The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington; Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun; Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay; On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way; We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run: All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!" The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough, The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring. They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now, At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King. The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due, The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new. Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayer Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share; He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true, For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare. The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife; With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by. The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strife That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry. At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow; At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe: The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide. Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side. The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woe Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride. The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air; No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod; But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare; They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God. The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled, On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled. Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize: That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise. A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes. The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town; They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington. In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown; And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done. Wallace Rice. LEXINGTON [1775] No Berserk thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet Their homespun breasts in that old day. Their feet had trodden peaceful ways; They loved not strife, they dreaded pain; They saw not, what to us is plain, That God would make man's wrath His praise. No seers were they, but simple men; Its vast results the future hid: The meaning of the work they did Was strange and dark and doubtful then. Swift as their summons came they left The plough mid-furrow standing still, The half-ground corn grist in the mill, The spade in earth, the axe in cleft. They went where duty seemed to call, They scarcely asked the reason why; They only knew they could but die, And death was not the worst of all! Of man for man the sacrifice, All that was theirs to give, they gave. The flowers that blossomed from their grave Have sown themselves beneath all skies. Their death-shot shook the feudal tower, And shattered slavery's chain as well; On the sky's dome, as on a bell, Its echo struck the world's great hour. That fateful echo is not dumb: The nations listening to its sound Wait, from a century's vantage-ground, The holier triumphs yet to come,— The bridal time of Law and Love, The gladness of the world's release, When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace The hawk shall nestle with the dove!— The golden age of brotherhood Unknown to other rivalries Than of the mild humanities, And gracious interchange of good, When closer strand shall lean to strand, Till meet, beneath saluting flags, The eagle of our mountain-crags, The lion of our Motherland! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE RISING From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies" Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wild land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet, While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swell'd the discord of the hour. * * * * * Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkeley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteem'd of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Pass'd mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead. * * * * * The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,— "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!" He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compell'd the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant King. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise. A moment there was awful pause,— When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!" And now before the open door— The warrior priest had order'd so— The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before. It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! war! war!" "Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came— "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answer'd, "I!" Thomas Buchanan Read.
THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA [May 11, 1775] I Four young men, of a Monday morn, Heard that the flag of peace was torn; Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun, Had fought the British at Lexington, While they were far from that bloody plain, Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine. With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned, They talked of the glory their friends had earned, And asked each other, "What can we do, So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?" II Silent the Margaretta lay, Out on the bosom of the bay; On her masts rich bunting gleamed; Bravely the flag of England streamed. The young men gazed at the tempting prize— They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes; Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dread And hoist the pine-tree flag instead. "We are only boys to the old and sage; We have not yet come to manhood's age; "But we can show them that, when there's need, Men may follow and boys may lead." Tightly each other's hand they pressed, Loudly they cried, "We will do our best; "The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed, Shall float from the Margaretta's mast." III They ran to a sloop that lay near by; They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry; They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers, And called for a crew of volunteers. Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide, And men came running from every side. Curious armed were the dauntless ones, With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns; They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed, The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!" IV With sails all set, trim as could be, The Margaretta stood out to sea. With every man and boy in place, The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase. Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas; Freshened and sung the soft May breeze; And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray! We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!" A sound of thunder, echoing wide, Came from the Margaretta's side; A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell, And one of the brave pursuers fell. They aimed a gun at the schooner then, And sent the compliment back again; He who at the helm of the schooner stood, Covered the deck with his rich life-blood. V Each burning to pay a bloody debt, The crews of the hostile vessels met; The Western nation now to be, Made her first fight upon the sea. And not till forty men were slain, Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain; But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed, And grandly the patriot arm prevailed. One of the youths, the deed to crown, Grasped the colors and pulled them down; And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight, The pine-tree flag of blue and white. And the truth was shown, for the world to read, That men may follow and boys may lead. Will Carleton.
THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION [May 20, 1775] Oppressed and few, but freemen yet, The men of Mecklenburg had met Determined to be free, And crook no coward knee, Though Might in front and Treason at the back Brought death and ruin in their joint attack. The tyrant's heel was on the land When Polk convoked his gallant band, And told in words full strong The bitter tale of wrong, Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves: "We must be independent, or be slaves!" But, hark! What hurried rider, this, With jaded horse and garb amiss, Whose look some woe proclaims, Ere he his mission names? He rides amain from far-off Lexington, And tells the blood-red news of war begun! Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spoke The wise bold words that aye invoke Men to defend the right And scorn the despot's might; Until from all there rose the answering cry: "We will be independent, or we die." When Alexander called the vote, No dastard "nay's" discordant note Broke on that holy air— For dastard none was there! But in prompt answer to their country's call, They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor—all! In solemn hush the people heard; With shout and cheer they caught the word: Independence! In that sign We grasp our right divine; For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hate Must yield to men who fight for God and State! The hero shout flew on the breeze; Rushed from the mountains to the seas; Till all the land uprose, Their faces to their foes, Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne, And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn! And well those men maintained the right; They kept the faith, and fought the fight; Till Might and Treason both Fled fast before the oath Which brought the God of Freedom's battles down To place on patriot brows the victor's crown! William C. Elam.
A SONG Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake! To arms, my brave boys, and away: 'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls, And upbraids the too tedious delay. What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes, Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly; Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza! The tyrants are seized on, they die! Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd, Like men, we'll be joyful and gay— With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink, And lose the fatigues of the day. 'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth, But oppression all happiness sours; It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent, And strew the way over with flowers. Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775. CHAPTER IIITHE COLONISTS TAKE THE OFFENSIVE
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS [May 9, 1775] I Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent On the rugged forest-ground, And light our fire with the branches rent By winds from the beeches round. Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, But a wilder is at hand, With hail of iron and rain of blood, To sweep and waste the land. II How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill, That startle the sleeping bird! To-morrow eve must the voice be still, And the step must fall unheard. The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, In Ticonderoga's towers, And ere the sun rise twice again, Must they and the lake be ours. III Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides Where the fire-flies light the brake; A ruddier juice the Briton hides In his fortress by the lake. Build high the fire, till the panther leap From his lofty perch in flight, And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep For the deeds of to-morrow night. William Cullen Bryant.
THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA [May 10, 1775] The Continental army at Cambridge, meanwhile, was busy day and night, drilling and getting into shape. It was at this time that "a gentleman of Connecticut," whose name, it is said, was Edward Bangs, described his visit to the camp in verses destined to become famous. They were printed originally as a broadside. THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP [June, 1775] Father and I went down to camp, Along with Captain Gooding, And there we see the men and boys, As thick as hasty pudding. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle, dandy, Mind the music and the step, And with the girls be handy. And there we see a thousand men, As rich as 'Squire David; And what they wasted every day I wish it could be savÈd. The 'lasses they eat every day Would keep an house a winter; They have as much that, I'll be bound, They eat it when they're a mind to. And there we see a swamping gun, Large as a log of maple, Upon a deucÈd little cart, A load for father's cattle. And every time they shoot it off, It takes a horn of powder, And makes a noise like father's gun, Only a nation louder. I went as nigh to one myself As Siah's underpinning; And father went as nigh again, I thought the deuce was in him. Cousin Simon grew so bold, I thought he would have cocked it; It scared me so, I shrinked it off, And hung by father's pocket. And Captain Davis had a gun, He kind of clapt his hand on 't, And stuck a crooked stabbing iron Upon the little end on 't. And there I see a pumpkin shell As big as mother's bason; And every time they touched it off, They scampered like the nation. I see a little barrel, too, The heads were made of leather, They knocked upon 't with little clubs And called the folks together. And there was Captain Washington, And gentlefolks about him, They say he's grown so tarnal proud He will not ride without 'em. He got him on his meeting clothes, Upon a strapping stallion, He set the world along in rows, In hundreds and in millions. The flaming ribbons in his hat, They looked so tearing fine ah, I wanted pockily to get, To give to my Jemimah. I see another snarl of men A digging graves, they told me, So tarnal long, so tarnal deep, They 'tended they should hold me. It scared me so, I hooked it off, Nor stopped, as I remember, Nor turned about, till I got home, Locked up in mother's chamber.
OR BLUSTERING DENUNCIATION (REPLETE WITH DEFAMATION) THREATENING DEVASTATION, AND SPEEDY JUGULATION, OF THE NEW ENGLISH NATION.— WHO SHALL HIS PIOUS WAYS SHUN? [June 12, 1775] Whereas the rebels hereabout Are stubborn still, and still hold out; Refusing yet to drink their tea, In spite of Parliament and me; And to maintain their bubble, Right, Prognosticate a real fight; Preparing flints, and guns, and ball, My army and the fleet to maul; Mounting their guilt to such a pitch, As to let fly at soldiers' breech; Pretending they design'd a trick, Tho' ordered not to hurt a chick; But peaceably, without alarm, The men of Concord to disarm; Or, if resisting, to annoy, And every magazine destroy:— All which, tho' long obliged to bear, Thro' want of men, and not of fear; I'm able now by augmentation, To give a proper castigation; For since th' addition to the troops, Now reinforc'd as thick as hops; I can, like Jeremey at the Boyne, Look safely on—fight you, Burgoyne; And now, like grass, the rebel Yankees, I fancy not these doodle dances:— Yet, e'er I draw the vengeful sword, I have thought fit to send abroad, This present gracious proclamation, Of purpose mild the demonstration, That whosoe'er keeps gun or pistol, I'll spoil the motion of his systole; Or, whip his ——, or cut his weason, As haps the measure of his treason:— But every one that will lay down His hanger bright, and musket brown, Shall not be beat, nor bruis'd, nor bang'd, Much less for past offences hang'd; But on surrendering his toledo, Go to and fro unhurt as we do:— But then I must, out of this plan, lock Both Samuel Adams and John Hancock; For those vile traitors (like debentures) Must be tucked up at all adventures; As any proffer of a pardon, Would only tend those rogues to harden:— But every other mother's son, The instant he destroys his gun (For thus doth run the King's command), May, if he will, come kiss my hand.— And to prevent such wicked game, as Pleading the plea of ignoramus, Be this my proclamation spread To every reader that can read:— And as nor law nor right was known Since my arrival in this town, To remedy this fatal flaw, I hereby publish martial law. Meanwhile, let all, and every one Who loves his life, forsake his gun; And all the council, by mandamus, Who have been reckoned so infamous, Return unto their habitation, Without or let or molestation.— Thus graciously the war I wage, As witnesseth my hand,—Tom Gage. By command of Mother Cary, Thomas Flucker, Secretary. Pennsylvania Journal, June 28, 1775.
THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL [June 16, 1775] 'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath, When life is a gladsome thing, and a distant dream is death; There was gossip of birds in the air, and a lowing of herds by the wood, And a sunset gleam in the sky that the heart of a man holds good; Then the nun-like Twilight came, violet-vestured and still, And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill. There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word; There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;— Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales, Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales; Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill; Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill! Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true, And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew; The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,— Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes! Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will! A hush, and then a loud Amen! on the eve of Bunker Hill! Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame, Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name; Some shall never again behold the set of the sun, But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington, Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill, The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill! Clinton Scollard.
WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS [June 17, 1775] 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 a-fire! 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; But, oh, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! John Pierpont.
We lay in the Trenches we'd dug in the Ground While Phoebus blazed down from his glory-lined Car, And then from the lips of our Leader renown'd, These lessons we learn'd in the Science of War. "Let the Foeman draw nigh, Till the white of his Eye Is in range with your Rifles, and then, Lads, let fly! And shew to Columbia, to Britain, and Fame, How Justice smiles aweful, when Freemen take aim!" The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the Hill Came in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small, But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, until We fear'd there would be no Attack after all! Two men in red Coats Talk'd to one in long Boots, And all of them pinted and gestur'd like Coots, And we said,—as the Boys do upon Training-Day— "If they waste all their Time so, the Sham-fight won't pay." But when they got Ready, and All came along, The way they march'd up the Hill-side wasn't slow, But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong, Held our Fire till the Word, and then laid the Lads low! ... But who shall declare The End of the Affair? At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there! But we didn't depart till we'd given them Some! When we burned up our Powder, we had to go Home! Edward Everett Hale.
BUNKER HILL "Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!" On came the foe, in even line: Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine. We looked into their eyes. "Ready!" A sheet of flame! A roll of death! They fell by scores; we held our breath! Then nearer still they came; Another sheet of flame! And brave men fled who never fled before. Immortal fight! Foreshadowing flight Back to the astounded shore. Quickly they rallied, reinforced. Mid louder roar of ship's artillery, And bursting bombs and whistling musketry And shouts and groans, anear, afar, All the new din of dreadful war, Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed The blood of those stout farmers, aiming For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming. Onward once more they came; Another sheet of deathful flame! Another and another still: They broke, they fled: Again they sped Down the green, bloody hill. Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage, Stormed with commander's rage. Into each emptied barge They crowd fresh men for a new charge Up that great hill. Again their gallant blood we spill: That volley was the last: Our powder failed. On three sides fast The foe pressed in; nor quailed A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks, Till Prescott ordered the retreat. Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet, From Bunker Hill and Breed, Led off the remnant of those heroes true, The foe too shattered to pursue. The ground they gained; but we The victory. The tidings of that chosen band Flowed in a wave of power Over the shaken, anxious land, To men, to man, a sudden dower. From that stanch, beaming hour History took a fresh higher start; And when the speeding messenger, that bare The news that strengthened every heart, Met near the Delaware Riding to take command, The leader, who had just been named, Who was to be so famed, The steadfast, earnest Washington With hand uplifted cries, His great soul flashing to his eyes, "Our liberties are safe; the cause is won." A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men. George H. Calvert.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;" When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door. Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"— For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels! In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before. They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair. Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare. Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb: Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, And their lips were white with terror as they said, The hour has come! The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill. Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall. At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers! At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks. So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,— At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill. We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,— Now the front rank fires a volley,—they have thrown away their shot; For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not. Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),— He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,— Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,— And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:— "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!" In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall. Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer, When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes— The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks! Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray. Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so),— "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?"—"Wait a while." Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again. All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,— The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town! They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed? Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep? Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm! So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!" And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it— Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"—then he handed me his flask, Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky; I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;" So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun. All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming: It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more." With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,— Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum! Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck? It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground. Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore. For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,— And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue. "Why, grandma, how you're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong. And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,— "Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,— There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here! Oliver Wendell Holmes.
THE DEATH OF WARREN [June 17, 1775] When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land, To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand; On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear, When the army is joined by a young volunteer. "Tempt not death!" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by, Saying, "Oh! it is sweet for our country to die!" The tempest of battle now rages and swells, 'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells; And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire— Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire! The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry But murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!" With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near: A volley of musketry checks their career! With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown, And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!" "Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly! Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!" Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;— "Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!" But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field, Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield. A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh Is, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!" And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall! To perish for country at Liberty's call! Should the flag of invasion profane evermore The blue of our seas or the green of our shore, May the hearts of our people reËcho that cry,— "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!" Epes Sargent.
COMPOSED BY A BRITISH OFFICER, THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American forces. THE NEW-COME CHIEF From "Under the Old Elm" [July 3, 1775] Beneath our consecrated elm A century ago he stood, Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:— From colleges, where now the gown To arms had yielded, from the town, Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see The new-come chief and wonder which was he. No need to question long; close-lipped and tall, Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone To bridle others' clamors and his own, Firmly erect, he towered above them all, The incarnate discipline that was to free With iron curb that armed democracy. A motley rout was that which came to stare, In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm, Of every shape that was not uniform, Dotted with regimentals here and there; An army all of captains, used to pray And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair, Skilled to debate their orders, not obey; Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods, Ready to settle Freewill by a vote, But largely liberal to its private moods; Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen, Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen, Nor much fastidious as to how and when: Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create A thought-staid army or a lasting state: Haughty they said he was, at first; severe; But owned, as all men own, the steady hand Upon the bridle, patient to command, Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear, And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere. Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint. * * * * * Never to see a nation born Hath been given to mortal man, Unless to those who, on that summer morn, Gazed silent when the great Virginian Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash Shot union through the incoherent clash Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them Around a single will's unpliant stem, And making purpose of emotion rash, Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb, Nebulous at first but hardening to a star, The common faith that made us what we are. That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans, Till then provincial, to Americans, And made a unity of wildering plans; Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the date When this New World awoke to man's estate, Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind: Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hate Could from its poise move that deliberate mind, Weighing between too early and too late Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate: His was the impartial vision of the great Who see not as they wish, but as they find. He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less The incomputable perils of success; The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind; The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind; The waste of war, the ignominy of peace; On either hand a sullen rear of woes, Whose garnered lightnings none could guess, Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!" Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely chose The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose. James Russell Lowell.
THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE [July 3, 1775] When Congress sent great Washington All clothed in power and breeches, To meet old Britain's warlike sons And make some rebel speeches; 'Twas then he took his gloomy way Astride his dapple donkeys, And travelled well, both night and day, Until he reach'd the Yankees. Away from camp, 'bout three miles off, From Lily he dismounted. His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig While he the specie counted. All prinkÈd up in full bag-wig; The shaking notwithstanding, In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight! He reach'd the Yankee landing. The women ran, the darkeys too; And all the bells, they tollÈd; For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo, We're sure to be—consolÈd. Old mother Hancock with a pan All crowded full of butter, Unto the lovely Georgius ran, And added to the splutter. Says she, "Our brindle has just calved, And John is wondrous happy. He sent this present to you, dear, As you're the 'country's papa.'"— "You'll butter bread and bread butter, But do not butt your speeches. You'll butter bread and bread butter, But do not grease your breeches." Full many a child went into camp, All dressed in homespun kersey, To see the greatest rebel scamp That ever cross'd o'er Jersey. The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight! Too awkward was their figure. 'Twas yonder stood a pious wight, And here and there a nigger. Upon a stump he placed (himself), Great Washington did he, And through the nose of lawyer Close, Proclaimed great Liberty. The patriot brave, the patriot fair, From fervor had grown thinner, So off they march'd, with patriot zeal, And took a patriot dinner.
WAR AND WASHINGTON 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! Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL [October 7, 1775] In seventeen hundred and seventy-five, Our Bristol town was much surprised By a pack of thievish villains, That will not work to earn their livings. October 'twas the seventh day, As I have heard the people say, Wallace, his name be ever curst, Came on our harbor just at dusk. And there his ship did safely moor, And quickly sent his barge on shore, With orders that should not be broke, Or they might expect a smoke. Demanding that the magistrates Should quickly come on board his ship, And let him have some sheep and cattle, Or they might expect a battle. At eight o'clock, by signal given, Our peaceful atmosphere was riven By British balls, both grape and round, As plenty afterwards were found. But oh! to hear the doleful cries Of people running for their lives! Women, with children in their arms, Running away to the farms! With all their firing and their skill They did not any person kill; Neither was any person hurt But the Reverend Parson Burt. And he was not killed by a ball, As judged by jurors one and all; But being in a sickly state, He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate. Another truth to you I'll tell, That you may see they levelled well; For aiming for to kill the people, They fired their shot into a steeple. They fired low, they fired high, The women scream, the children cry; And all their firing and their racket Shot off the topmast of a packet.
MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC [December 31, 1775] Round Quebec's embattled walls Moodily the patriots lay; Dread disease within its thralls Drew them closer day by day; Till from suffering man to man, Mutinous, a murmur ran. Footsore, they had wandered far, They had fasted, they had bled; They had slept beneath the star With no pillow for the head; Was it but to freeze to stone In this cruel icy zone? Yet their leader held his heart, Naught discouraged, naught dismayed; Quelled with unobtrusive art Those that muttered; unafraid Waited, watchful, for the hour When his golden chance should flower. 'Twas the death-tide of the year; Night had passed its murky noon; Through the bitter atmosphere Pierced nor ray of star nor moon; But upon the bleak earth beat Blinding arrows of the sleet. While the trumpets of the storm Pealed the bastioned heights around, Did the dauntless heroes form, Did the low, sharp order sound. "Be the watchword Liberty!" Cried the brave Montgomery. Here, where he had won applause, When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe, For a nobler, grander cause Would he strike the fearless blow,— Smite at Wrong upon the throne, At Injustice giant grown. "Men, you will not fear to tread Where your general dares to lead! On, my valiant boys!" he said, And his foot was first to speed; Swiftly up the beetling steep, Lion-hearted, did he leap. Flashed a sudden blinding glare; Roared a fearsome battle-peal; Rang the gloomy vasts of air; Seemed the earth to rock and reel; While adown that fiery breath Rode the hurtling bolts of death. Woe for him, the valorous one, Now a silent clod of clay! Nevermore for him the sun Would make glad the paths of day; Yet 'twere better thus to die Than to cringe to tyranny!— Better thus the life to yield, Striking for the right and God, Upon Freedom's gory field, Than to kiss Oppression's rod! Honor, then, for all time be To the brave Montgomery! Clinton Scollard.
A SONG [1776] Smile, Massachusetts, smile, Thy virtue still outbraves The frowns of Britain's isle, The rage of home-born slaves. Thy free-born sons disdain their ease, When purchased by their liberties. Thy genius, once the pride Of Britain's ancient isle, Brought o'er the raging tide By our forefathers' toil; In spite of North's despotic power, Shines glorious on this western shore. In Hancock's generous mind Awakes the noble strife, Which so conspicuous shined In gallant Sydney's life; While in its cause the hero bled, Immortal honors crown'd his head. Let zeal your breasts inspire; Let wisdom guide your plans; 'Tis not your cause entire, On doubtful conflict hangs; The fate of this vast continent, And unborn millions share th' event. To close the gloomy scenes Of this alarming day, A happy union reigns Through wide America. While awful Wisdom hourly waits To adorn the councils of her states. Brave Washington arrives, Arrayed in warlike fame, While in his soul revives Great Marlboro's martial flame, To lead your conquering armies on To lasting glory and renown. To aid the glorious cause, Experienc'd Lee has come, Renown'd in foreign wars, A patriot at home. While valiant Putnam's warlike deeds Amongst the foe a terror spreads. Let Britons proudly boast, "That their two thousand braves Can drive our numerous host, And make us all their slaves;" While twice six thousand quake with fear, Nor dare without their lines appear. Kind Heaven has deign'd to own Our bold resistance just, Since murderous Gage began The bloody carnage first. Near ten to one has been their cost, For each American we've lost. Stand firm in your defence, Like Sons of Freedom fight, Your haughty foes convince That you'll maintain your right. Defiance bid to tyrants' frown, And glory will your valor crown. The Connecticut Gazette, 1776.
A POEM CONTAINING SOME REMARKS ON THE PRESENT WAR [March 17, 1776] Britons grown big with pride And wanton ease, And tyranny beside, They sought to please Their craving appetite, They strove with all their might, They vow'd to rise and fight, To make us bow. The plan they laid was deep Even like hell; With sympathy I weep, While here I tell Of that base murderous brood, Void of the fear of God, Who came to spill our blood In our own land. They bid their armies sail Though billows roar, And take the first fair gale For Boston's shore; They cross'd the Atlantic sea A long and watery way, Poor Boston fell a prey To tyranny. * * * * * Gage was both base and mean, He dare not fight, The men he sent were seen Like owls in night: It was in Lexington Where patriots' blood did run Before the rising sun In crimson gore. Here sons of freedom fell Rather than flee, Unto those brutes of hell They fell a prey; But they shall live again, Their names shall rise and reign Among the noble slain In all our land. But oh! this cruel foe Went on in haste, To Concord they did go, And there did waste Some stores in their rage, To gratify old Gage, His name in every page Shall be defam'd. Their practice thus so base, And murder too, Rouz'd up the patriot race, Who did pursue, And put this foe to flight, They could not bear the light, Some rued the very night They left their den. And now this cruelty Was spread abroad, The sons of liberty This act abhorr'd, Their noble blood did boil, Forgetting all the toil, In troubles they could smile, And went in haste. Our army willingly Did then engage, To stop the cruelty Of tyrants' rage! They did not fear our foe, But ready were to go, And let the tyrants know Whose sons they were. But when old Gage did see All us withstand, And strive for liberty Through all our land, He strove with all his might, For rage was his delight, With fire he did fight, A monster he. On Charlestown he display'd His fire abroad; He it in ashes laid, An act abhorr'd By sons of liberty, Who saw the flames on high Piercing their native sky, And now lies waste. To Bunker-Hill they came Most rapidly, And many there were slain, And there did die. They call'd it bloody hill, Altho' they gain'd their will In triumph they were still, 'Cause of their slain. Here sons of freedom fought Right manfully, A wonder here was wrought Though some did die. Here Warren bow'd to death, His last expiring breath, In language mild he saith, Fight on, brave boys. Oh! this did stain the pride Of British troops, They saw they were deny'd Of their vain hopes Of marching thro' our land, When twice a feeble band, Did fight and boldly stand In our defence. Brave Washington did come To our relief; He left his native home, Filled with grief, He did not covet gain, The cause he would maintain And die among the slain Rather than flee. His bosom glow'd with love For liberty, His passions much did move To orphans' cry, He let proud tyrants know, How far their bounds should go And then his bombs did throw Into their den. This frighted them full sore When bombs were sent, When cannon loud did roar They left each tent: Oh! thus did the tyrants fly, Went precipitately, Their shipping being nigh, They sailed off. And now Boston is free From tyrants base, The sons of liberty Possess the place; They now in safety dwell. Free from those brutes of hell, Their raptur'd tongues do tell Their joys great.
MUGFORD'S VICTORY [May 17-19, 1776] Our mother, the pride of us all, She sits on her crags by the shore, And her feet they are wet with the waves Whose foam is as flowers from the graves Of her sons whom she welcomes no more, And who answer no more to her call. Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shells They are buried far down in the deep,— The deep which they loved to career. Oh, might we awake them from sleep! Oh, might they our voices but hear, And the sound of our holiday bells! Can it be she is thinking of them, Her face is so proud and so still, And her lashes are moistened with tears? Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem, Her lap with your jollity fill, And ask of her thoughts and her fears. "Fears!"—we have roused her at last; See! her lips part with a smile, And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,— "Fears! whence should they ever arise In our hearts, O my children, the while We can remember the past? "Can remember that morning of May, When Mugford went forth with his men, Twenty, and all of them ours. 'Tis a hundred years to a day, And the sea and the shore are as then, And as bright are the grass and the flowers; But our twenty—they come not again! "He had heard of the terrible need Of the patriot army there In Boston town. Now for a deed To save it from despair! To thrill with joy the great commander's heart, And hope new-born to all the land impart! "Hope! ay; that was the very name Of the good ship that came From England far away, Laden with enginery of death, Food for the cannon's fiery breath; Hope-laden for great Washington, Who, but for her, was quite undone A hundred years ago to-day. "'Oh, but to meet her there, And grapple with her fair, Out in the open bay!' Mugford to Glover said. How could he answer nay? And Mugford sailed away, Brave heart and newly wed. "But what are woman's tears, And rosy cheeks made pale, To one who far off hears The generations hail A deed like this we celebrate to-day, A hundred years since Mugford sailed away! "I love to picture him, Clear-eyed and strong of limb, Gazing his last upon the rocky shore His feet should press no more; Seeing the tall church-steeples fade away In distance soft and gray; So dropping down below the horizon's rim Where fame awaited him. "Slow sailing from the east his victim came. They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame, And she was ours; In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun, Great joy for Washington! But heavy grew the hours On Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me, His mother proud, news of his victory; But that was not to be! "Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of gray The British cruisers lay: They saw the daring skipper dropping down From the much-hated rebel-haunted town, And in the twilight dim Their boats awaited him, While wind and tide conspired To grant what they desired. "Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft; But Mugford gayly laughed And gave them blow for blow; And many a hapless foe Went hurtling down below. Upon the schooner's rail Fell, like a thresher's flail, The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart, And pistol-crack through many an eager heart Sent deadly hail. But when the fight was o'er, Brave Mugford was no more. Crying, with death-white lip, 'Boys, don't give up the ship!' His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore. "We gave him burial meet; Through every sobbing street A thousand men marched with their arms reversed; And Parson Story told, In sentences of gold, The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed." Such is the story she tells, Our mother, the pride of us all. Ring out your music, O bells, That ever such things could befall! Ring not for Mugford alone, Ring for the twenty unknown, Who fought hand-to-hand at his side, Who saw his last look when he died, And who brought him, though dead, to his own! John White Chadwick.
OFF FROM BOSTON INDEPENDENCE
EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE [1775] 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 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. Philip Freneau.
RODNEY'S RIDE [July 3, 1776] In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear The North and South on the genial air, Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state, Rode CÆsar Rodney, the delegate. Burly and big, and bold and bluff, In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff, A foe to King George and the English State, Was CÆsar Rodney, the delegate. Into Dover village he rode apace, And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face, It was matter grave that brought him there, To the counties three on the Delaware. "Money and men we must have," he said, "Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead; Give us both and the King shall not work his will. We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!" Comes a rider swift on a panting bay: "Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day, For the Congress halts at a deed so great, And your vote alone may decide its fate." Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed; It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need. When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare, But ride like the wind from the Delaware." "Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day, And the Congress sits eighty miles away— But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace, To shake my fist in King George's face." He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies On the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies; It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear, And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear. It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling The Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling; It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where The road winds down to the Delaware. Four; and he spurs into New Castle town, From his panting steed he gets him down— "A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!" And off speeds Rodney, the delegate. It is five; and the beams of the western sun Tinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun; Six; and the dust of Chester Street Flies back in a cloud from the courser's feet. It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam, At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream— And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock, He flings his reins to the tavern jock. The Congress is met; the debate's begun, And Liberty lags for the vote of one— When into the hall, not a moment late, Walks CÆsar Rodney, the delegate. Not a moment late! and that half day's ride Forwards the world with a mighty stride; For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke. At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung; "We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung, And the sons of the free may recall with pride The day of Delegate Rodney's ride.
AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd, Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd, Make room for America, another great nation; She rises to claim in your councils a station. Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own bravery Have rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery; America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd; And America's fame is forever restored. Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected; Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected. The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation, And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station. With glory immortal she here sits enthroned, Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd, Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded; Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded. To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us, The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us; The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us, Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us. In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance, We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance; The cause we supported was just, and was glorious; When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious. Francis Hopkinson.
THE FOURTH OF JULY Day of glory! Welcome day! Freedom's banners greet thy ray; See! how cheerfully they play With thy morning breeze, On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled, On the heights where squadrons wheeled, When a tyrant's thunder pealed O'er the trembling seas. God of armies! did thy stars On their courses smite his cars; Blast his arm, and wrest his bars From the heaving tide? On our standard, lo! they burn, And, when days like this return, Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn Who for freedom died. God of peace! whose spirit fills All the echoes of our hills, All the murmur of our rills, Now the storm is o'er, O let freemen be our sons, And let future Washingtons Rise, to lead their valiant ones Till there's war no more! John Pierpont.
INDEPENDENCE DAY Squeak the fife, and beat the drum, Independence day is come! Let the roasting pig be bled, Quick twist off the cockerel's head, Quickly rub the pewter platter, Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter. Set the cups and beaker glass, The pumpkin and the apple sauce; Send the keg to shop for brandy; Maple sugar we have handy. Independent, staggering Dick, A noggin mix of swingeing thick; Sal, put on your russet skirt, Jotham, get your boughten shirt, To-day we dance to tiddle diddle. —Here comes Sambo with his fiddle; Sambo, take a dram of whiskey, And play up Yankee Doodle frisky. Moll, come leave your witched tricks, And let us have a reel of six. Father and mother shall make two; Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row; Sambo, play and dance with quality; This is the day of blest equality. Father and mother are but men, And Sambo—is a citizen. Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in, And mother, you dance up to him; Now saw as fast as e'er you can do, And father, you cross o'er to Sambo. —Thus we dance, and thus we play, On glorious independence day.— Rub more rosin on your bow, And let us have another go. Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon, Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon, Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her, On blundering mare, than beetle blinder. And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady— Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby, Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair; Good folks, we're glad to see you here. Jotham, get the great case bottle, Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple. Ensign,—Deacon, never mind; 'Squire, drink until you're blind. Come, here's the French, the Guillotine, And here is good 'Squire Gallatin, And here's each noisy Jacobin. Here's friend Madison so hearty, And here's confusion to the treaty. Come, one more swig to Southern Demos Who represent our brother negroes. Thus we drink and dance away, This glorious Independence Day! Royall Tyler. ON INDEPENDENCE [August 17, 1776] Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free, It's for Independence we all now agree; Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defend Our liberty, property, ourselves and our friends. In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree, And from hostile invaders set America free, The cause is so glorious we need not to fear But from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear. Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall say That Americans e'er to such monsters gave way, But fighting we'll die in America's cause Before we'll submit to tyrannical laws. George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign, With unlimited sway o'er these free States again; Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan, Shall ever be honor'd by an American. May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States, And grant that the union may never abate; May love, peace, and harmony ever be found, For to go hand in hand America round. Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestow Both wisdom and skill our good to pursue; On Heaven alone dependent we'll be. But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free. Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skill Our armies to guide, and the sword for to wield, May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight, Be able to put British armies to flight. And now, brave Americans, since it is so, That we are independent, we'll have them to know That united we are, and united we'll be, And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free. May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors, Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers, Keep us from invaders by land and by sea, And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty. Jonathan Mitchell Sewall. [1776] Parent of all, omnipotent In heav'n, and earth below, Thro' all creation's bounds unspent, Whose streams of goodness flow. Teach me to know from whence I rose, And unto what design'd; No private aims let me propose, Since link'd with human kind. But chief to hear my country's voice, May all my thoughts incline, 'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice, 'Tis nature's call and thine. Me from fair freedom's sacred cause Let nothing e'er divide; Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause, Nor friendship false misguide. Let me not faction's partial hate Pursue to this land's woe; Nor grasp the thunder of the state To wound a private foe. If, for the right, to wish the wrong My country shall combine, Single to serve th' erron'ous throng, Spite of themselves, be mine. COLUMBIA 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, 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'er-spread, 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." Timothy Dwight. CHAPTER VTHE FIRST CAMPAIGN
THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER [June 28, 1776] 'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea, With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee; A little lead for a cure, he said, for these rebel sires and sons! And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted guns; They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a hopeful smile, The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle. 'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noon Ruin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,— The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mast And the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast; But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single sign That the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line. 'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flag From the fortress wall; then rang his call:—They have lost their rebel rag! And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled; 'Tis now, the haughty Admiral cried, we'll drive them out of their hold! But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted power, For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the hour! 'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amaze This hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery haze; Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught, And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught. Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet, And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set. 'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea, With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee; Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and woe, For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe; But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a joyful smile The stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle. Clinton Scollard.
A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER My lords, with your leave, An account I will give, Which deserves to be written in metre; How the rebels and I Have been pretty nigh, Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter! De'il take 'em! their shot Came so swift and so hot, And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs, That I put ship about And was glad to get out, Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs. With much labor and toil Unto Sullivan's Isle, I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol; But the Yankees, od rat 'em— I could not get at 'em, They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol. Behold, Clinton, by land, Did quietly stand, While I made a thundering clatter; But the channel was deep, So he only could peep, And not venture over the water. Now, bold as a Turk, I proceeded to York, Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me: I've the wind in my tail, And am hoisting my sail, To leave Sullivan's Island behind me. But, my lords, do not fear, For, before the next year, Although a small island should fret us, The continent, whole, We will take, by my soul, If the cowardly Yankees will let us.
[August 27, 1776] Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall, Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff, Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff— But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer. And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair. There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills, By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane; For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead. Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge. The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers— For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray! Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead! "Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?" TralÁra! TralÁra! Now praise we the Lord, For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! TralÁra! TralÁra! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! "Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound 'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll, We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll— When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West. John Williamson Palmer.
HAARLEM HEIGHTS Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells of the affair of September 16, 1776. They've turned at last! Good-by, King George, Despite your hireling band! The farmer boys have borne a brunt, The 'prentice lads will stand! Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag, Our fight's as good as won; We've made the Redcoats run! Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn With Knowlton at their head To rout the British pickets out And spend a little lead. We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece, And hurried, fighting, back; For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps Were keen upon our track. Along the vale of Bloomingdale They pressed our scant array; They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag Across the Hollow Way. Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!" Their buglers, from the wall, In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt Brayed out the hunting call! Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame In every sunburned face, And every soul was hot as coal To cleanse the foul disgrace. And some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights And fled at Turtle Bay Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path And clamored for the fray. Our General came spurring!— There rolled a signal drum.— His eye was bright; he rose his height; He knew the time had come. He gave the word to Knowlton To lead us on once more— The pick of old Connecticut,— And Leitch with Weedon's corps Of proud Virginia Riflemen, Tall hunters of the deer,— To round the boastful Briton's flank And take him in the rear. We left the dell, we scaled the fell, And up the crest we sprang, When swift and sharp along the scarp A deadly volley rang; And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps! Deep hurt, but gallant still; And down went Knowlton!—he that bore The sword of Bunker Hill. I raised his head. But this he said, Death-wounded as he lay: "Lead on the fight! I hold it light If we but get the day!" In open rank we struck their flank, And oh! the fight was hot! Up came the Hessian Yagers! Up came the kilted Scot! Up came the men of Linsingen, Von Donop's Grenadiers! But soon we sped the vengeful lead A-whistling 'bout their ears! They buckled front to Varnum's brunt; We crumpled up their right, And hurling back the crimson wrack We swept along the height. The helmets of the Hessians Are tumbled in the wheat; The tartan of the Highlander Shall be his winding-sheet! A mingled rout, we drove them out From orchard, field, and glen; In goodly case it seemed to chase Our hunters home again! We flaunted in their faces The flag they thought to scorn, And left them with a loud "Hurrah!" To choke their bugle-horn! Upon a ledge embattled Above the Hudson's shore We dug the grave for Knowlton And Leitch of Weedon's corps. And though in plight of War's despite We yield this island throne, Upon that ledge we left a pledge That we shall claim our own! Arthur Guiterman.
[September 22, 1776] The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." NATHAN HALE [September 22, 1776] 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 the 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, and 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 spirit 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; But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn! Francis Miles Finch.
THE BALLAD OF SWEET P [December 25, 1776] Mistress Penelope Penwick, she, Called by her father, "My Sweet P," Painted by Peale, she won renown In a clinging, short-waisted satin gown; A red rose touched by her finger-tips And a smile held back from her roguish lips. Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight, In clouds of smoke, night after night, Would tell a tale in delighted pride, To cronies, who came from far and wide; Always ending (with candle, he) "And this is the picture of my Sweet P!" The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chance To give to the British a Christmas dance. Penwick's house past the outpost stood, Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood. Hessian and British quartered there Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair. Fires ablaze and candles alight, Soldier and officer feasted that night. The enemy? Safe, with a river between, Black and deadly and fierce and keen; A river of ice and a blinding storm!— So they made them merry and kept them warm. But while they mirth and roistering made, Up in her dormer window stayed Mistress Penelope Penwick apart, With fearful thought and sorrowful heart. Night by night had her candle's gleam Sent through the dark its hopeful beam. But the nights they came and they passed again, With never a sign from her countrymen; For where beat the heart so brave, so bold, Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold? Penelope's eyes and her candle's light Were mocked by the storm that Christmas night. But lo, full sudden a missile stung And shattered her casement pane and rung At her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside. She opened her dormer window wide. A wind-swept figure halted below— The ferryman, old and bent and slow. Then a murmur rose upward—only one, Thrilling and powerful—"Washington!" With jest and laughter and candles bright, 'Twas two by the stairway clock that night, When Penelope Penwick tripped her down, Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown, With a red rose (cut from her potted bush). There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush. She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween, The daintiest thing they e'er had seen! And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet, And patted her little slippered feet. "'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P, "I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?" Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro, And each for the honor bowed him low. With smiling charm and witching grace She chose him pranked with officer's lace And shining buttons and dangling sword; No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord! Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,— Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P! And when it was over, and blood aflame, Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!" "We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried. "If one holdeth aught in his love and pride, "Let each lay it down at my feet in turn, And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!" What held they all in their love and pride? Straight flew a hand unto every side; Each man had a sword and nothing more, And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor. Standing there, in her satin gown, With candlelight on her yellow crown, And at her feet a bank of steel (I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!) Penelope held her rose on high— "I fine each one for a leaf to try!" She plucked the petals and blew them out, A rain of red they fluttered about. Over the floor and through the air Rushed the officers here and there; When lo! a cry! The door burst in! "The enemy!" Tumult, terror, and din! Flew a hand unto every side,— Swords?—Penelope, arms thrown wide Leapt that heap of steel before; Swords behind her upon the floor; Facing her countrymen staunch and bold, Who dared the river of death and cold, Who swept them down on a rollicking horde, And found they never a man with sword! And so it happened (but not by chance), In '76 there was given a dance By a witch with a rose and a satin gown (Painted in Philadelphia town), Mistress Penelope Penwick, she, Called by her father, "My Sweet P." Virginia Woodward Cloud.
ACROSS THE DELAWARE The winter night is cold and drear, Along the river's sullen flow; The cruel frost is camping here— The air has living blades of snow. Look! pushing from the icy strand, With ensigns freezing in the air, There sails a small but mighty band, Across the dang'rous Delaware. Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fight The bayonets of a winter storm? In truth it were a better night For blazing fire and blankets warm! We seek to trap a foreign foe, Who fill themselves with stolen fare; We carry freedom as we go Across the storm-swept Delaware! The night is full of lusty cheer Within the Hessians' merry camp; And faint and fainter on the ear Doth fall the heedless sentry's tramp. O hirelings, this new nation's rage Is something 'tis not well to dare; You are not fitted to engage These men from o'er the Delaware! A rush—a shout—a clarion call, Salute the early morning's gray: Now, roused invaders, yield or fall: The refuge-land has won the day! Soon shall the glorious news be hurled Wherever men have wrongs to bear; For freedom's torch illumes the world, And God has crossed the Delaware! Will Carleton.
THE BATTLE OF TRENTON 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.
[December 26, 1776—January 3, 1777] On December, the sixth And the twentieth day, Our troops attacked the Hessians, And show'd them gallant play. Our roaring cannon taught them Our valor for to know; We fought like brave Americans Against a haughty foe. The chiefs were kill'd or taken, The rest were put to flight, And some arrived at Princeton, Half-fainting with affright. The third of January, The morning being clear, Our troops attack'd the regulars, At Princeton, we do hear. About a mile from Princeton, The battle is begun, And many a haughty Briton fell Before the fight was done. And what our gallant troops have done We'll let the British know; We fought like brave Americans Against a haughty foe. The British, struck with terror, And frighted, ran away: They ran across the country Like men in deep dismay, Crying to every one they met, "Oh! hide us! hide us! do! The rebels will devour us, So hotly they pursue." Oh, base, ungenerous Britons! To call us by that name; We're fighting for our liberty, Our just and lawful claim. We trust in Heaven's protection, Nor fear to win the day; When time shall come we'll crown our deeds With many a loud huzza! Our foes are fled to Brunswick, Where they are close confined; Our men they are unanimous, In Freedom's cause combined. Success to General Washington, And Gates and Putnam, too, Both officers and privates, Who liberty pursue. ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON [January 3, 1777] Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink, And after at Princeton the Briton we met; Few in both armies—they'd skirmishes call them, Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set. But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you, Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told; There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman— I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old. Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention; There's nothing a veteran hates and abhors More than a chance lost to tell his adventures, Or give you his story of battles and wars. Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious, And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun; Youth has the power to be up and be doing, While age can but tell of the deeds it has done. Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink, There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay, When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us, Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day— Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet, From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run— Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying— Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun. Two ways were left them by which to assail us, And neither was perfectly to their desire— One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon, The other the ford that was under our fire. "Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other," Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes: And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose. Down at the ford, it was said, that the water Was reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell: As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forces Were beaten with terrible slaughter as well. Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water, And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way; Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated; Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray. How did I get there? I came from our corn-mill At noon of the day when the battle begun, Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor; 'Twas not very long ere that errand was done. Up to that time I had never enlisted, Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne; But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses, And made up my mind with the rest to remain. We camped on our side—the south—of Assunpink, While they bivouacked for the night upon theirs; Both posting sentries and building up watchfires, With those on both sides talking over affairs. "Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis, And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim; "Fox! but I have him!"—the earl had mistaken; The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him. Early that night, when the leaders held council, Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear; Useless to strike at the van of our foemen— His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear. Washington thought so, and bade us replenish Our watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day; Setting some more to make feint of intrenching, While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away. Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing, We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn, Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalion Our foes to amuse, should they find we were gone; Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton, All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow; Only a chance that we lost not our labor, And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe. Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger, Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day, Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over, When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way; Turning contemptuously back to attack it, They drove it with ease in disorder ahead— Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon— A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead. Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter— A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true— Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them, And let us in all give the demon his due. Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting, So long as his right arm his sabre could wield, Stretching his enemies bleeding around him, And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field. Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them, Our cannon replying to theirs with a will; Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them, And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill. Racing and chasing it was into Princeton, Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall, Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not— We rudely expelled them with powder and ball. Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one— It did not last over the fourth of an hour; But 'twas a battle that did us this service— No more, from that day, had we fear of their power. Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged, But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last; Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen water And ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed. Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor— A turn of the tide to a haven that bore. Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over Assunpink That day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er. Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood, All torn as we were, it seems certain to me, I would not chatter to you about battles, And you and your children would not have been free. Thomas Dunn English.
SEVENTY-SIX What heroes from the woodland sprung, When, through the fresh-awakened land, The thrilling cry of freedom rung And to the work of warfare strung The yeoman's iron hand! Hills flung the cry to hills around, And ocean-mart replied to mart, And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, Pealed far away the startling sound Into the forest's heart. Then marched the brave from rocky steep, From mountain-river swift and cold; The borders of the stormy deep, The vales where gathered waters sleep, Sent up the strong and bold,— As if the very earth again Grew quick with God's creating breath, And, from the sods of grove and glen, Rose ranks of lion-hearted men To battle to the death. The wife, whose babe first smiled that day The fair fond bride of yestereve, And aged sire and matron gray, Saw the loved warriors haste away, And deemed it sin to grieve. Already had the strife begun; Already blood, on Concord's plain, Along the springing grass had run, And blood had flowed at Lexington, Like brooks of April rain. That death-stain on the vernal sward Hallowed to freedom all the shore; In fragments fell the yoke abhorred— The footstep of a foreign lord Profaned the soil no more. William Cullen Bryant.
BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG From dusk till dawn the livelong night She kept the tallow dips alight, And fast her nimble fingers flew To sew the stars upon the blue. With weary eyes and aching head She stitched the stripes of white and red, Complete across a carven chair Hung Betsy's battle flag. Like shadows in the evening gray The Continentals filed away, With broken boots and ragged coats, But hoarse defiance in their throats; They bore the marks of want and cold, And some were lame and some were old, And some with wounds untended bled, But floating bravely overhead Was Betsy's battle flag. When fell the battle's leaden rain, The soldier hushed his moans of pain And raised his dying head to see King George's troopers turn and flee. Their charging column reeled and broke, And vanished in the rolling smoke, Before the glory of the stars, The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars Of Betsy's battle flag. The simple stone of Betsy Ross Is covered now with mold and moss, But still her deathless banner flies, And keeps the color of the skies. A nation thrills, a nation bleeds, A nation follows where it leads, And every man is proud to yield His life upon a crimson field For Betsy's battle flag! Minna Irving.
THE AMERICAN FLAG I When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. II Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven— Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory! III Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on; Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. IV Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. V Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given; And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? Joseph Rodman Drake. CHAPTER VI"THE FATE OF SIR JACK BRAG"
THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON Why come ye hither, stranger? Your mind what madness fills? In our valleys there is danger, And danger on our hills! Hear ye not the singing Of the bugle, wild and free? Full soon ye'll know the ringing Of the rifle from the tree! The rifle, the sharp rifle! In our hands it is no trifle! Ye ride a goodly steed; He may know another master: Ye forward come with speed, But ye'll learn to back much faster, When ye meet our mountain boys And their leader, Johnny Stark! Lads who make but little noise, But who always hit the mark With the rifle, the true rifle! In their hands will prove no trifle! Had ye no graves at home Across the briny water, That hither ye must come, Like bullocks to the slaughter? If we the work must do, Why, the sooner 'tis begun, If flint and trigger hold but true, The quicker 'twill be done By the rifle, the good rifle! In our hands it is no trifle!
THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN [August 15, 1777] Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen. PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE [August 15, 1777] The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night. The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here, Assembled and grouped in the lingering light, To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer. Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green, Through the driving rain of that August day, The "Flock" marched on with martial mien, And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay." "Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said, As the boys of New England drew up face to face, "Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread, And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'" "The lads who are with me have come here to fight, And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply, "Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right, Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti." "To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do, If you think you can wait for the morning light, And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you, Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night." What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp, Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess; A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp, With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess. But we know the result of that glorious day, And the victory won ere the night came down; How Warner charged in the bitter fray, With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown: And how in the lull of the three hours' fight, The Parson harangued the Tory line, As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright, And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:— The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry, A refuge sure in the hour of need, And freedom and faith can never die, Is article first of the Puritan creed. "Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash," He remarked to his comrades after the rout, "For behind a bush I saw a flash, But I fired that way and put it out." And many the sayings, eccentric and queer, Repeated and sung through the whole country side, And quoted in Berkshire for many a year, Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride. All honor to Stark and his resolute men, To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise, While with shout and with cheer we welcome again, The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise. Wallace Bruce.
THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON [August 16, 1777] Up through a cloudy sky, the sun Was buffeting his way, On such a morn as ushers in A sultry August day. Hot was the air—and hotter yet Men's thoughts within them grew: They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw— They saw their homesteads too. They thought of all their country's wrongs, They thought of noble lives Pour'd out in battle with her foes, They thought upon their wives, Their children, and their aged sires, Their firesides, churches, God— And these deep thoughts made hallow'd ground Each foot of soil they trod. Their leader was a brave old man, A man of earnest will; His very presence was a host— He'd fought at Bunker Hill. A living monument he stood Of stirring deeds of fame, Of deeds that shed a fadeless light On his own deathless name. Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood, His presence told the tale, It made each hero's heart beat high Though lip and cheek grew pale; It spoke of Princeton, Morristown, Told Trenton's thrilling story— It lit futurity with hope, And on the past shed glory. Who were those men—their leader who? Where stood they on that morn? The men were Berkshire yeomanry, Brave men as e'er were born,— Who in the reaper's merry row Or warrior rank could stand Right worthy such a noble troop, John Stark led on the band. Wollamsac wanders by the spot Where they that morning stood; Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream, The waves were tinged with blood; And the near hills that dark cloud girt, And fires like lightning flash'd, And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts, Rose as the bayonets clash'd. The night before, the Yankee host Came gathering from afar, And in each belted bosom glow'd The spirit of the war. As full of fight, through rainy storm, Night, cloudy, starless, dark, They came, and gathered as they came, Around the valiant Stark. There was a Berkshire parson—he And all his flock were there, And like true churchmen militant The arm of flesh made bare. Out spake the Dominie and said, "For battle have we come These many times, and after this We mean to stay at home." "If now we come in vain," said Stark, "What! will you go to-night To battle it with yonder troops, God send us morning light, And we will give you work enough: Let but the morning come, And if ye hear no voice of war Go back and stay at home." The morning came—there stood the foe, Stark eyed them as they stood— Few words he spake—'twas not a time For moralizing mood. "See there the enemy, my boys! Now strong in valor's might, Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleep In widowhood to-night." Each soldier there had left at home A sweetheart, wife, or mother, A blooming sister, or, perchance, A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother. Each from a fireside came, and thoughts Those simple words awoke That nerved up every warrior's arm And guided every stroke. Fireside and woman—mighty words! How wondrous is the spell They work upon the manly heart, Who knoweth not full well? And then the women of this land, That never land hath known A truer, prouder hearted race, Each Yankee boy must own. Brief eloquence was Stark's—nor vain— Scarce utter'd he the words, When burst the musket's rattling peal Out-leap'd the flashing swords; And when brave Stark in after time Told the proud tale of wonder, He said the battle din was one "Continual clap of thunder." Two hours they strove—then victory crown'd The gallant Yankee boys. Nought but the memory of the dead Bedimm'd their glorious joys; Ay—there's the rub—the hour of strife, Though follow years of fame, Is still in mournful memory link'd With some death-hallow'd name. The cypress with the laurel twines— The pÆan sounds a knell, The trophied column marks the spot Where friends and brothers fell. Fame's mantle a funereal pall Seems to the grief-dimm'd eye, For ever where the bravest fall The best beloved die. Thomas P. Rodman.
BENNINGTON [August 16, 1777] A cycle was closed and rounded, A continent lost and won, When Stark and his men went over The earthworks at Bennington. Slowly down from the northward, Billowing fold on fold, Whelming the land and crushing, The glimmering glacier rolled. Down from the broad St. Lawrence, Bright with its thousand isles, Through the Canadian woodlands, Sweet with the summer smiles, On over field and fastness, Village and vantage coigne, Rolled the resistless legions Led by the bold Burgoyne. Roared the craggy ledges Looming o'er Lake Champlain; Red with the blaze of navies Quivered the land-locked main; Soared the Vancour eagle, Screaming, across the sun; Deep dived the loon in terror Under Lake Horicon. Panther and hart together Fled to the wilds afar, From the flash and the crash of the cannon And the rush of the southward war. But at last by the lordly river The trampling giant swayed, And his massive arm swung eastward Like a blindly-plunging blade. New England felt her bosom Menaced with deadly blow, And her minute-men sprang up again And flew to bar the foe. But Stark in his Hampshire valley Watched like a glowering bear, That hears the cry go sweeping by Yet stirs not from his lair; For on his daring spirit A wrath lay like a spell,— The wrath of one rewarded ill For a great work wrought right well. Neighbor and friend and brother Flocked to his side in vain,— "What, can it be that they long for me To ruin their cause again? "Surely the northern lights are bright. Surely the South lies still. Would they have more?—Lo, I left my sword On the crest of Bunker Hill." But at last from his own New Hampshire An urgent summons came, That stirred his heart like the voice of God From Sinai's walls of flame. He bowed his head, and he rose aloft; Again he grasped the brand,— "For the cause of man and my native State, Not for an ingrate land!" Through the mist-veil faintly struggling, The rays of the setting sun Reddened the leafy village Of white-walled Bennington. Then out of the dismal weather Came many a sound of war,— The straggling shots and the volleys And the cries, now near now far. For forms half seen were chasing The phantom forms that fled; And ghostly figures grappled And spectres fought and bled; Till the mist on a sudden settled And they saw before them fair, Over a hill to the westward, An island in the air. There were tree-trunks and waving branches, And greensward and flowers below; It rose in a dome of verdure From the mist-waves' watery flow. A flag from its summit floated And a circling earthwork grew, As the arms of the swarming soldiers At their toil unwonted flew. "Aha!" cried the Yankee leader, "So the panther has turned at bay With his claws of steel and his breath of fire Behind that wall of clay! "Our steel is in muscle and sinew. But I know,"—and his voice rang free,— "Right well I know we shall strike a blow That the world will leap to see." I stood by a blazing city Till the fires had died away, Save a flickering gleam in the ruins And a fitful gleam on the bay. But a swarthy cove by the water Blue-bristled from point to base, With the breath of demons, bursting Through the crust of their prison-place; And another beside it flaunted A thousand rags of red, Like the Plague King's dancing banners On a mound of the swollen dead. Twin brothers of flame and evil, In their quivering living light, They ruled with a frightful beauty The desolate waste of night. Thus did the battle mountain Blazon with flashes dire; The leaguered crest responded In a coronal of fire. The tough old fowling-pieces In huddling tumult rang. Louder the muskets' roaring! Shriller the rifles' clang! Hour after hour the turmoil Gathered and swelled apace, Till the hill seemed a volcano Bursting in every place. Then the lights grew faint and meagre, Though the hideous noise rolled on; And out of a bath of glory Uprose the noble sun. It brightened the tossing banner; It yellowed the leafy crest; It smote on the serried weapons, On helmet and scarlet breast. It drove on the mist below them Where Stark and his foremost stood, Flashing volley for volley Into the stubborn wood. A thousand stalwart figures Sprang from the gulf profound, Went whirling round and round. Like some barbarian onslaught On a lofty Roman hold; Like the upward rush of Titans On Olympian gods of old; With a swirl of the wrangling torrents As they dash on a castle wall; With the flame-seas skyward surging At the mountain demon's call, Heedless of friend and brother Stricken to earth below, The sons of New England bounded On the breastwork of the foe. Each stalwart form on the ramparts Swaying his battered gun Seemed a vengeful giant, looming Against the rising sun. The pond'rous clubs swept crashing Through the bayonets round their feet As a woodman's axe-edge crashes Through branches mailed in sleet, Shattering head and shoulder, Splintering arm and thigh, Hurling the redcoats earthward Like bolts from an angry sky. Faster each minute and faster The yeomen swarm over the wall, And narrower grows the circle And thicker the Britons fall; Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmen Swift to the rescue flies, The frown of the Northland on their brows And the war-light in their eyes. Back reeled the men of Berkshire, The mountaineers gave back, But Stark and his Hampshire yeomen Flung full across their track. The stern Teutonic mother Well might she grandly eye The prowess dread of her war-swarms red As they racked the earth and sky. Like rival wrestling athletes Grappled the East and West. With straining thews and staring eyes They swayed and strove for the royal prize, A continent's virgin breast. Till at last as a strong man's wrenching Shatters a brittle vase, The lustier arms of the Westland Shattered the elder race. Baum and his bravest cohorts Lay on the trampled sod, And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high, "Yield in the name of God!" Then the sullen Hessians yielded, Girt by an iron ring, And down from the summit fluttered The flag of the British king. Vainly the tardy Breyman May strive that height to gain; More work for the Hampshire war-clubs! More room for the Hessian slain! The giant's arm is severed, The giant's blood flows free, And he staggers in the pathway That leads to the distant sea. The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomen With the men of the Hudson join, And the gathering flood rolls over The host of the bold Burgoyne. For a cycle was closed and rounded, A continent lost and won, When Stark and his men went over The earthworks at Bennington. W. H. Babcock.
THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY [August 6, 1777] As men who fight for home and child and wife, As men oblivious of life In holy martyrdom, Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,— Blood-red Oriskany. From rock and tree and clump of twisted brush The hissing gusts of battle rush,— Hot-breathed and horrible! The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas, Sweep through thy splintered trees,— Hard-fought Oriskany. Heroes are born in such a chosen hour; From common men they rise, and tower, Like thee, brave Herkimer! Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beech Cheered on thy men, with sword and speech, In grim Oriskany. But ere the sun went toward the tardy night, The valley then beheld the light Of freedom's victory; And wooded Tryon snatched from British arms The empire of a million farms— On bright Oriskany. The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies; The rescued wilderness replies; Forth dash the garrison! And routed Tories, with their savage aids, Sink reddening through the sullied shades— From lost Oriskany. Charles D. Helmer.
SAINT LEGER [August, 1777] From out of the North-land his leaguer he led, Saint Leger, Saint Leger; And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped; Their courage, he cried, it shall die i' the throat When they mark the proud standards that over us float— See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat! Saint Leger, Saint Leger. He hurried by water, he scurried by land, Saint Leger, Saint Leger, Till closely he cordoned the patriot band: Surrender, he bade, or I tighten the net! Surrender? they mocked him, we laugh at your threat! By Heaven! he thundered, you'll live to regret Saint Leger, Saint Leger! He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell, Saint Leger, Saint Leger; Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell; But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate, As he sat in his tent-door, Egad, we can wait, For famine is famous to open a gate! Saint Leger, Saint Leger. But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear— Saint Leger, Saint Leger— A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear! They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled! They come, and their onset may not be controlled, For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold— Saint Leger, Saint Leger! Retreat! Was the word e'er more bitterly said, Saint Leger, Saint Leger, Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led? Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain— Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train! And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vain Saint Leger! Clinton Scollard.
THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG 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 For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys! 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!
ARNOLD AT STILLWATER [October 7, 1777] Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel! Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel; Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard. Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall; Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all! Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried; Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when AndrÉ died. Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame, Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame; Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime, Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time. Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday! Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay. The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne, And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join. Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight; There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height; Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word; As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred. Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze; Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees; Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?" "General Gates sent his orders"—faltering the aide-de-camp spoke— "You're to return, lest some rashness—" Fiercely the speech Arnold broke: "Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done! Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!" Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight, Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!— Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell— Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell! Thomas Dunn English.
THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE [October 17, 1777] 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. SARATOGA SONG [October 17, 1777] Come unto me, ye heroes Whose hearts are true and bold, Who value more your honor Than others do their gold; Give ear unto my story, And I the truth will tell, Concerning many a soldier Who for his country fell. Burgoyne, the King's commander, From Canada set sail; He thought he could not fail; With Indians and Canadians, And his cursÈd Tory crew, On board his fleet of shipping He up the Champlain flew. Before Ticonderoga, The first day of July, Appeared his ships and army, And we did them espy. Their motions we observed, Full well both night and day, And our brave boys prepared To have a bloody fray. Our garrison, they viewed them, And straight their troops did land; And when St. Clair, our chieftain, The fact did understand, That they the Mount Defiance Were bent to fortify, He found we must surrender, Or else prepare to die. The fifth day of July, then, He ordered a retreat; And when next morn we started, Burgoyne thought we were beat. And closely he pursued us, Till when near Hubbardton, Our rear guards were defeated, He thought the country won. And when 'twas told in Congress That we our forts had left, To Albany retreated, Of all the North bereft, Brave General Gates they sent us, Our fortunes to retrieve, And him, with shouts of gladness, The army did receive. Where first the Mohawk's waters Do in the sunshine play, For Herkimer's brave soldiers Sellinger ambushed lay; And them he there defeated, But soon he had his due, And scared by Brooks and Arnold, He to the north withdrew. To take the stores and cattle That we had gathered then, Burgoyne sent a detachment Of fifteen hundred men; By Baum they were commanded, To Bennington they went; To plunder and to murder Was fully their intent. But little did they know then With whom they had to deal; It was not quite so easy Our stores and stocks to steal, Bold Stark would give them only A portion of his lead; With half his crew, ere sunset, Baum lay among the dead. The nineteenth of September, The morning cool and clear, Brave Gates rode through our army, Each soldier's heart to cheer; "Burgoyne," he cried, "advances, But we will never fly; No—rather than surrender, We'll fight him till we die!" The news was quickly brought us, The enemy was near, And all along our lines then, There was no sign of fear; It was above Stillwater We met at noon that day, And every one expected To see a bloody fray. Six hours the battle lasted, Each heart as true as gold, The British fought like lions, And we like Yankees bold; The leaves with blood were crimson, And then did brave Gates cry, "'Tis diamond now cut diamond! We'll beat them, boys, or die." The darkness soon approaching, It forced us to retreat Into our lines till morning, Which made them think us beat; But ere the sun was risen, They saw before their eyes Us ready to engage them, Which did them much surprise. Of fighting they seem weary, Therefore to work they go Their thousand dead to bury, And breastworks up to throw; With grape and bombs intending Our army to destroy, By stratagem decoy. The seventh day of October The British tried again, Shells from their cannon throwing, Which fell on us like rain; To drive us from our stations, That they might thus retreat; For now Burgoyne saw plainly He never could us beat. But vain was his endeavor Our men to terrify; Though death was all around us, Not one of us would fly. But when an hour we'd fought them, And they began to yield, Along our lines the cry ran, "The next blow wins the field!" Great God who guides their battles Whose cause is just and true, Inspired our bold commander The course he should pursue! He ordered Arnold forward, And Brooks to follow on; The enemy was routed! Our liberty was won! Then, burning all their luggage, They fled with haste and fear, Burgoyne with all his forces, To Saratoga did steer; And Gates, our brave commander, Soon after him did hie, Resolving he would take them, Or in the effort die. As we came nigh the village, We overtook the foe; They'd burned each house to ashes, Like all where'er they go. The seventeenth of October, They did capitulate, Burgoyne and his proud army Did we our prisoners make. Now here's a health to Arnold, And our commander Gates, To Lincoln and to Washington, Whom every Tory hates; Likewise unto our Congress, God grant it long to reign; Our Country, Right, and Justice Forever to maintain. Now finished is my story, My song is at an end; The freedom we're enjoying We're ready to defend; For while our cause is righteous, Heaven nerves the soldier's arm, And vain is their endeavor Who strive to do us harm. CHAPTER VIITHE SECOND STAGE
[February 17, 1778] But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared. A NEW BALLAD [1778] Rouse, Britons! at length, And put forth your strength Perfidious France to resist; Ten Frenchmen will fly, To shun a black eye, If an Englishman doubles his fist. Derry down, down, hey derry down. But if they feel stout, Why let them turn out, With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies, Brave Hardy's sea thunder Shall strike them with wonder, And make the frogs leap in their bellies! For their Dons and their ships We care not three skips Of a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O! We'll bang their bare ribs For the infamous fibs Cramm'd into their fine manifesto. Our brethren so frantic Across the Atlantic, Who quit their old friends in a huff, In spite of their airs, Are at their last prayers, And of fighting have had quantum suff. Then if powers at a distance Should offer assistance, Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye," Old England's a match And more for old scratch, A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee! Derry down, down, hey derry down.
The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified. [June, 1777] As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim, I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same; And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share, All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair. Derry down, down, hey derry down. There I met them in person, and took the command, When I instantly told them the job upon hand; I did not detain them with long-winded stuff, But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff. With this omen elated, towards Quibbletown I led them, concluding the day was our own; For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,— But Putnam and Washington, d—n them, were there! I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skill The rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill; With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force, But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse. There were then but two ways,—to retreat or attack, And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back; For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray, There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay. Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain, I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign; So just as we went, we return'd to this place, With no other diff'rence,—than mending our pace. Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear, But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear; I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,— Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other. Having briefly, my lord, told you,—how the land lies, I hope there's enough—for a word to the wise; 'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,— But, fighting or flying,—I'm your very humble.
CARMEN BELLICOSUM 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 Blazed the fires: As the roar Of 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 St. George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, On our flanks: Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the bareheaded Colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broadsword was swinging And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet-loud. 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. Guy Humphreys McMaster.
VALLEY FORGE From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies" [1777-78] O'er town and cottage, vale and height, Down came the Winter, fierce and white, And shuddering wildly, as distraught At horrors his own hand had wrought. His child, the young Year, newly born, Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn, As on a frozen heath benighted. In vain the hearths were set aglow, In vain the evening lamps were lighted, To cheer the dreary realm of snow: Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed, Nor the young Year's wailing soothed. How sad the wretch at morn or eve Compelled his starving home to leave, Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift, Toils slowly on from rift to rift, Still hearing in his aching ear The cry his fancy whispers near, Of little ones who weep for bread Within an ill-provided shed! But wilder, fiercer, sadder still, Freezing the tear it caused to start, Was the inevitable chill Which pierced a nation's agued heart,— A nation with its naked breast Against the frozen barriers prest, Heaving its tedious way and slow Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe, Where every blast that whistled by Was bitter with its children's cry. Such was the winter's awful sight For many a dreary day and night, What time our country's hope forlorn, Of every needed comfort shorn, Lay housed within a hurried tent, Where every keen blast found a rent, And oft the snow was seen to sift Along the floor its piling drift, Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold, Across the night-couch frequent rolled; Where every path by a soldier beat, Or every track where a sentinel stood, Still held the print of naked feet, And oft the crimson stains of blood; Where Famine held her spectral court, And joined by all her fierce allies: She ever loved a camp or fort Beleaguered by the wintry skies,— But chiefly when Disease is by, To sink the frame and dim the eye, Until, with seeking forehead bent, In martial garments cold and damp, Pale Death patrols from tent to tent, To count the charnels of the camp. Such was the winter that prevailed Within the crowded, frozen gorge; Such were the horrors that assailed The patriot band at Valley Forge. It was a midnight storm of woes To clear the sky for Freedom's morn; And such must ever be the throes The hour when Liberty is born. Thomas Buchanan Read.
BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED; [January 5, 1778] Gallants attend, and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty; Strange things I'll tell which late befel In Philadelphia city. 'Twas early day, as Poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a sight surprising. As in a maze he stood to gaze (The truth can't be deny'd, Sir), He spy'd a score of kegs, or more, Come floating down the tide, Sir. A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, Then said "Some mischief's brewing: "These kegs now hold, the rebels bold, Packed up like pickl'd herring; And they're come down t' attack the town In this new way of ferry'ng." The soldier flew, the sailor too, And, scar'd almost to death, Sir, Wore out their shoes to spread the news, And ran 'til 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 cry'd, which some deny'd, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran thro' the streets half naked. Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm In bed with Mrs. Loring. 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 espy'd, And t' other in his hand, Sir. "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, "The rebels—more's the pity— Without a boat, are all afloat, And rang'd before the city. "The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, Sir, Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, Sir. "Therefore prepare for bloody war; These kegs must all be routed; Or surely we dispis'd shall be, And British valor doubted." The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dread array, Sir, On every slip, on every ship, For to begin the fray, Sir. The cannons roar from shore to shore; The small-arms loud did 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, Attack'd from every quarter; Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay 'Mong folks above the water. The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made Of rebel staves and hoops, Sir, Could not oppose their pow'rful foes, The conq'ering British troops, Sir. From morn to night these men of might Display'd 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, 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. Francis Hopkinson.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. "Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud; And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd; But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find: And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh; Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye. So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said: And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy, And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. "You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry!" And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak, And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak; But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street, "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye. Will Carleton.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH [June 28, 1778] Whilst in peaceful quarters lying We indulge the glass till late, Far remote the thought of dying, Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate: From the summer's sun hot beaming, Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies, To the plains where heroes bleeding, Shouts and dying groans arise. Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here; Mark yon dust that climbs the sky, To the front close up the long rear, See! the enemy is nigh; Platoons march at proper distance, Cover close each rank and file, They will make a bold resistance, Here, my lads, is gallant toil. Now all you from downy slumber Roused to the soft joys of love, Waked to pleasures without number, Peace and ease your bosoms prove: Round us roars Bellona's thunder, Ah! how close the iron storm, O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder, Pass the word there, form, lads, form. To the left display that column, Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave; Mark in air yon fiery volume, Who'd refuse a glorious grave; Ope your boxes, quick, be ready, See! our light-bobs gain the hill; Courage, boys, be firm and steady, Hence each care, each fear lie still. Now the dismal cannon roaring Speaks loud terror to the soul, Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring, Ether rings from pole to pole; See, the smoke, how black and dreary, Clouds sulphureous hide the sky, Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary, How their groans ascend on high! Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus? Oh! can brave men ever yield, Glorious danger now combines us, None but cowards quit the field. To the rear each gun dismounted; Close the breach, and brisk advance. All your former acts recounted This day's merit shall enhance. Now half-choked with dust and powder, Fiercely throbs each bursting vein: Hark! the din of arms grows louder, Ah! what heaps of heroes slain! See, from flank to flank wide flashing, How each volley rends the gloom; Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing, Man and horse now meet their doom; Bravely done! each gallant soldier Well sustained this heavy fire; Alexander ne'er was bolder; Now by regiments retire. See, our second line moves on us, Ope your columns, give them way, Heaven perhaps may smile upon us, These may yet regain the day. Now our second line engaging, Charging close, spreads carnage round, Fierce revenge and fury raging, Angry heroes bite the ground. The souls of brave men here expiring Call for vengeance e'en in death, Threaten with their latest breath. To the left obliquely flying, Oh! be ready, level well, Who could think of e'er retiring, See, my lads, those volleys tell. Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying, How the squadrons fill the plain! Check them, boys, ye fear not dying, Sell your lives, nor fall in vain. Now our left flank they are turning; Carnage is but just begun; Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning, Farewell, friends, adieu the sun! Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating, To the shock our breasts oppose, Hark! the shout, the signal beating, See, with bayonets they close: Front rank charge! the rear make ready! Forward, march—reserve your fire! Now present, fire brisk, be steady, March, march, see their lines retire! On the left, our light troops dashing, Now our dragoons charge the rear, Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing, They run, they run, hence banish fear! Now the toil and danger's over, Dress alike the wounded brave, Hope again inspires the lover, Old and young forget the grave; Seize the canteen, poise it higher, Rest to each brave soul that fell! Death for this is ne'er the nigher, Welcome mirth, and fear farewell. R. H. THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH [June 28, 1778] Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me; These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn; Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring, Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne; Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older, Though a stripling at that fight for the right. All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer, Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down; Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping, Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown, With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing, And their sentries pacing slow to and fro. Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted, And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes; Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories— They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those— While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after Rang around each creaking wain of the train. 'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might; Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring, Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight; Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling, And the corses gory red of the dead. Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track; Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens; And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back, Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us, With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown. For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer, As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire; That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire. Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness, Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey. I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted, Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne. What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not; But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again, At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder, With the Briton plying steel at their heel. Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging, Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe; But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward, As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low: "Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion? Is it treachery or fear brings you here?" Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o'er the clangor, O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied; But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded, Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide; Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning, "Will you now strike a blow at the foe?" At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly; "Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;" And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely, Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled; Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border, Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn. As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter, One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer; And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear. "Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder, And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun. Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back; Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack: There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer, While we swept with wrath condign on their line. From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven, Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks; In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks, Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster From the stronghold that we held back repelled. Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless, Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain; Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them From the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne; While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals, Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse. Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid, Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon; Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter, Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June; Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring, As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest. On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping, Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show; Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number, Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe; For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspoken When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone. In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber, Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook; Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories— Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook; Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing: So we found the field our own, and alone. How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me! How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame! Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being, By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in a name; But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for, Is their monument to-day, and for aye. Thomas Dunn English.
MOLLY PITCHER [June 28, 1778] MOLLY PITCHER All day the great guns barked and roared; All day the big balls screeched and soared; All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim, Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim, Sweet Molly labored with courage high, With steady hand and watchful eye, Looked down on the field of Monmouth won, And Molly standing beside her gun. Now, Molly, rest your weary arm! Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm. Now, woman, bow your aching head, And weep in sorrow o'er your dead! Next day on that field so hardly won, Stately and calm stands Washington, And looks where our gallant Greene doth lead A figure clad in motley weed— A soldier's cap and a soldier's coat Masking a woman's petticoat. He greets our Molly in kindly wise; He bids her raise her tearful eyes; And now he hails her before them all Comrade and soldier, whate'er befall, "And since she has played a man's full part, A man's reward for her loyal heart! And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's name Be writ henceforth on the shield of fame!" Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue! Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you! Sweet honor's roll will aye be richer To hold the name of Molly Pitcher. Laura E. Richards.
YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND [August, 1778] From Lewis, Monsieur GÉrard came, To Congress in this town, sir, They bow'd to him, and he to them, And then they all sat down, sir. Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup You shall bientÔt behold, sir; This was believ'd as gospel true, And Jonathan felt bold, sir. So Yankee Doodle did forget The sound of British drum, sir, How oft it made him quake and sweat, In spite of Yankee rum, sir. He took his wallet on his back, His rifle on his shoulder, And veow'd Rhode Island to attack Before he was much older. In dread array their tatter'd crew Advanc'd with colors spread, sir, Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo, King Hancock at their head, sir. What numbers bravely cross'd the seas, I cannot well determine, A swarm of rebels and of fleas, And every other vermin. Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't, For all flesh only grass is, A plenteous store they therefore bought Of whiskey and molasses. They swore they'd make bold Pigot squeak, So did their good ally, sir, And take him pris'ner in a week, But that was all my eye, sir. As Jonathan so much desir'd To shine in martial story, D'Estaing with politesse retir'd, To leave him all the glory. He left him what was better yet, At least it was more use, sir, He left him for a quick retreat A very good excuse, sir. To stay, unless he rul'd the sea, He thought would not be right, sir, And Continental troops, said he, On islands should not fight, sir. Another cause with these combin'd To throw him in the dumps, sir, For Clinton's name alarmed his mind, And made him stir his stumps, sir.
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE [September, 1778] When the French fleet lay In Massachusetts bay In that day When the British squadron made Its impudent parade Of blockade; All along and up and down The harbor of the town,— The brave, proud town That had fought with all its might Its bold, brave fight For the right, To win its way alone And hold and rule its own, Such a groan From the stanch hearts and stout Of the Yankees there went out: But to rout The British lion then Were maddest folly, when One to ten Their gallant allies lay, Scant of powder, day by day In the bay. Chafing thus, impatient, sore, One day along the shore Slowly bore A clipper schooner, worn And rough and forlorn, With its torn Sails fluttering in the air: The British sailors stare At her there, So cool and unafraid. "What! she's running the blockade, The jade!" They all at once roar out, Then—"Damn the Yankee lout!" They shout. Athwart her bows red hot They send a challenge shot; But not An inch to right or left she veers, Straight on and on she steers, Nor hears Challenge or shout, until Rings forth with British will A shrill "Heave to!" Then sharp and short Question and quick retort Make British sport. "What is it that you say,— Where do I hail from pray, What is my cargo, eh? "My cargo? I'll allow You can hear 'em crowin' now, At the bow. "And I've long-faced gentry too, For passengers and crew, Just a few, "To fatten up, you know, For home use, and a show Of garden sass and so. "And from Taunton town I hail; Good Lord, it was a gale When I set sail!" The British captain laught As he leaned there abaft: "'Tis a harmless craft, "And a harmless fellow too, With his long-faced gentry crew; Let him through," He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!" Sounded forth, and there sped Down the red Sunset track, unafraid, Straight through the blockade, This jade Of a harmless craft, Packed full to her draught, Fore and aft, With powder and shot, One day when, red hot The British got Their full share and more Of this cargo, they swore, With a roar, At the trick she had played, This "damned Yankee jade" Who had run the blockade! Nora Perry.
[September, 1777] Women are timid, cower and shrink At show of danger, some folk think; But men there are who for their lives Dare not so far asperse their wives. We let that pass—so much is clear, Though little perils they may fear, When greater perils men environ, Then women show a front of iron; And, gentle in their manner, they Do bold things in a quiet way, And so our wondering praise obtain, As on a time did Betty Zane. A century since, out in the West, A block-house was by Girty pressed— Girty, the renegade, the dread Of all that border, fiercely led Five hundred Wyandots, to gain Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain; And in this hold—Fort Henry then, But Wheeling now—twelve boys and men Guarded with watchful ward and care Women and prattling children there, Against their rude and savage foes, And Betty Zane was one of those. There had been forty-two at first When Girty on the border burst; But most of those who meant to stay And keep the Wyandots at bay, Outside by savage wiles were lured, And ball and tomahawk endured, Till few were left the place to hold, And some were boys and some were old; But all could use the rifle well, And vainly from the Indians fell, On puncheon roof and timber wall, The fitful shower of leaden ball. Now Betty's brothers and her sire Were with her in this ring of fire, And she was ready, in her way, To aid their labor day by day, In all a quiet maiden might. To mould the bullets for the fight, And, quick to note and so report, Watch every act outside the fort; Or, peering through the loopholes, see Each phase of savage strategy— These were her tasks, and thus the maid The toil-worn garrison could aid. Still, drearily the fight went on Until a week had nearly gone, When it was told—a whisper first, And then in loud alarm it burst— Their powder scarce was growing; they Knew where a keg unopened lay Outside the fort at Zane's—what now? Their leader stood with anxious brow. It must be had at any cost, Or toil and fort and lives were lost. Some one must do that work of fear; What man of men would volunteer? Two offered, and so earnest they, Neither his purpose would give way; And Shepherd, who commanded, dare Not pick or choose between the pair. But ere they settled on the one By whom the errand should be done, Young Betty interposed, and said, "Let me essay the task instead. Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane, A useless woman, should be slain; But death, if dealt on one of those, Gives too much vantage to our foes." Her father smiled with pleasure grim— Her pluck gave painful pride to him; He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go! She'll do it at less risk than you; But keep her steady in your view, And be your rifles shields for her. If yonder foe make step or stir, Pick off each wretch who draws a bead, And so you'll serve her in her need. Now I recover from surprise, I think our Betty's purpose wise." The gate was opened, on she sped; The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said, And wondered at her purpose, till She gained that log-hut by the hill. But when, in apron wrapped, the cask She backward bore, to close her task, The foemen saw her aim at last, And poured their fire upon her fast. Bullet on bullet near her fell, While rang the Indians' angry yell; But safely through that whirring rain, Powder in arms, came Betty Zane. They filled their horns, both boys and men, And so began the fight again. Girty, who there so long had stayed, By this new feat of feet dismayed, Fired houses round and cattle slew, And moved away—the fray was through. But when the story round was told How they maintained the leaguered hold, It was agreed, though fame was due To all who in that fight were true, The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain, Fell to the share of Betty Zane. A hundred years have passed since then; The savage never came again. Girty is dust; alike are dead Those who assailed and those bestead. Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands, A crowded city proudly stands; But of the many who reside By green Ohio's rushing tide, Not one has lineage prouder than (Be he or poor or rich) the man Who boasts that in his spotless strain Mingles the blood of Betty Zane. Thomas Dunn English.
[July 3, 1778] Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse, While she attempts to tell Of poor Wyoming's overthrow By savage sons of hell. One hundred whites, in painted hue, Whom Butler there did lead, Supported by a barb'rous crew Of the fierce savage breed. The last of June the siege began, And several days it held, While many a brave and valiant man Lay slaughtered on the field. Our troops marched out from Forty Fort The third day of July, Three hundred strong, they marched along, The fate of war to try. But oh! alas! three hundred men Is much too small a band To meet eight hundred men complete, And make a glorious stand. Four miles they marchÈd from the Fort Their enemy to meet, Too far indeed did Butler lead, To keep a safe retreat. And now the fatal hour is come— They bravely charge the foe, And they, with ire, returned the fire, Which prov'd our overthrow. Some minutes they sustained the fire, But ere they were aware, They were encompassed all around, Which prov'd a fatal snare. And then they did attempt to fly, But all was now in vain, Was by those Indians slain. And as they fly, for quarters cry; Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n! Hard to relate—their dreadful fate, No quarters must be given. With bitter cries and mournful sighs, They seek some safe retreat, Run here and there, they know not where, Till awful death they meet. Their piercing cries salute the skies— Mercy is all their cry: "Our souls prepare God's grace to share, We instantly must die." Some men yet found are flying round Sagacious to get clear; In vain to fly, their foes too nigh! They front the flank and rear. And now the foe hath won the day, Methinks their words are these: "Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race, Will this your Congress please? "Your pardons crave, you them shall have, Behold them in our hands; We'll all agree to set you free, By dashing out your brains. "And as for you, enlisted crew, We'll raise your honors higher: Pray turn your eye, where you must lie, In yonder burning fire." Then naked in those flames they're cast, Too dreadful 'tis to tell, Where they must fry, and burn and die, While cursed Indians yell. Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,— The youth, and hoary head, Were by those monsters murdered there, And numbered with the dead. Methinks I hear some sprightly youth His mournful state condole: "Oh, that my tender parents knew The anguish of my soul! "But oh! there's none to save my life, Or heed my dreadful fear; I see the tomahawk and knife, And the more glittering spear. "When years ago, I dandled was Upon my parents' knees, I little thought I should be brought To feel such pangs as these. "I hoped for many a joyful day, I hoped for riches' store— These golden dreams are fled away; I straight shall be no more. "Farewell, fond mother; late I was Locked up in your embrace; Your heart would ache, and even break, If you could know my case. "Farewell, indulgent parents dear, I must resign my breath; I now must die, and here must lie In the cold arms of death. "For oh! the fatal hour is come, I see the bloody knife,— The Lord have mercy on my soul!" And quick resigned his life. A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse, Pursue the doleful theme; It is no fancy to delude, Nor transitory dream. The Forty Fort was the resort For mother and for child, To save them from the cruel rage Of the fierce savage wild. Now, when the news of this defeat Had sounded in our ears, You well may know our dreadful woe, And our foreboding fears. A doleful sound is whispered round, The sun now hides his head; The nightly gloom forebodes our doom, We all shall soon be dead. How can we bear the dreadful spear, The tomahawk and knife? And if we run, the awful gun Will rob us of our life. But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power! His hand we must adore. That they should kill no more. The gloomy night now gone and past, The sun returns again, The little birds from every bush Seem to lament the slain. With aching hearts and trembling hands, We walkÈd here and there, Till through the northern pines we saw A flag approaching near. Some men were chose to meet this flag, Our colonel was the chief, Who soon returned and in his mouth He brought an olive leaf. This olive leaf was granted life, But then we must no more Pretend to fight with Britain's king, Until the wars are o'er. And now poor Westmoreland is lost, Our forts are all resigned, Our buildings they are all on fire,— What shelter can we find? They did agree in black and white, If we'd lay down our arms, That all who pleased might quietly Remain upon their farms. But oh! they've robbed us of our all, They've taken all but life, And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord, If this may end the strife. And now I've told my mournful tale, I hope you'll all agree To help our cause and break the jaws Of cruel tyranny. Uriah Terry. CHAPTER VIIITHE WAR ON THE WATER
THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN [1777] The twenty-second of August, Before the close of day, All hands on board of our privateer, We got her under weigh; We kept the Eastern shore along, For forty leagues or more, Then our departure took for sea, From the isle of Mauhegan shore. Bold Hawthorne was commander, A man of real worth, Old England's cruel tyranny Induced him to go forth; She, with relentless fury, Was plundering all our coast, And thought, because her strength was great, Our glorious cause was lost. Yet boast not, haughty Britons, Of power and dignity, By land thy conquering armies, Thy matchless strength at sea; Since taught by numerous instances Americans can fight, With valor can equip their stand, Your armies put to flight. Now farewell to fair America, Farewell our friends and wives; We trust in Heaven's peculiar care For to protect their lives; To prosper our intended cruise Upon the raging main, And to preserve our dearest friends Till we return again. The wind it being leading, It bore us on our way, As the Gulf of Florida; Where we fell in with a British ship, Bound homeward from the main; We gave her two bow-chasers, And she returned the same. We haulÈd up our courses, And so prepared for fight; The contest held four glasses, Until the dusk of night; Then having sprung our main-mast, And had so large a sea, We dropped astern and left our chase Till the returning day. Next morn we fished our main-mast, The ship still being nigh, All hands made for engaging, Our chance once more to try; But wind and sea being boisterous, Our cannon would not bear, We thought it quite imprudent And so we left her there. We cruisÈd to the eastward, Near the coast of Portugal, In longitude of twenty-seven We saw a lofty sail; We gave her chase, and soon perceived She was a British snow Standing for fair America, With troops for General Howe. Our captain did inspect her With glasses, and he said, "My boys, she means to fight us, But be you not afraid; All hands repair to quarters, See everything is clear, We'll give her a broadside, my boys, As soon as she comes near." She was prepared with nettings, And her men were well secured, And bore directly for us, And put us close on board; When the cannon roared like thunder, And the muskets fired amain, But soon we were alongside And grappled to her chain. And now the scene it altered, The cannon ceased to roar, We fought with swords and boarding-pikes One glass or something more, Till British pride and glory No longer dared to stay, But cut the Yankee grapplings, And quickly bore away. Our case was not so desperate As plainly might appear; Yet sudden death did enter On board our privateer. Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons, The valiant and the brave, Fell glorious in the contest, And met a watery grave. Ten other men were wounded Among our warlike crew, With them our noble captain, To whom all praise is due; To him and all our officers Let's give a hearty cheer; Success to fair America And our good privateer.
ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE [March 7, 1778] What distant thunders rend the skies, What clouds of smoke in volumes rise, What means this dreadful roar! Is from his base Vesuvius thrown, Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down, Or Etna's self no more! Shock after shock torments my ear; And lo! two hostile ships appear, Red lightnings round them glow: The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four, The Randolph thirty-two—no more— And will she fight this foe! The Randolph soon on Stygian streams Shall coast along the land of dreams, The islands of the dead! Shall save the Briton, still to weep His ancient honors fled. Say, who commands that dismal blaze, Where yonder starry streamer plays; Does Mars with Jove engage! 'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires, Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires With more than mortal rage. Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all; Her bravest sons expire; Did Mars himself approach so nigh, Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly The Randolph's fiercer fire. The Briton views his mangled crew, "And shall we strike to thirty-two" (Said Hector, stained with gore); "Shall Britain's flag to these descend— Rise, and the glorious conflict end, Britons, I ask no more!" He spoke—they charged their cannon round, Again the vaulted heavens resound, The Randolph bore it all, Then fixed her pointed cannons true— Away the unwieldy vengeance flew; Britain, the warriors fall. The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay, Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away, Her boldest heroes dead— She saw amidst her floating slain The conquering Randolph stem the main— She saw, she turned, and fled! That hour, blest chief, had she been thine, Dear Biddle, had the powers divine Been kind as thou wert brave; But fate, who doomed thee to expire, Prepared an arrow tipped with fire, And marked a watery grave, And in that hour when conquest came Winged at his ship a pointed flame That not even he could shun— The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled, The bursting Randolph ruin spread, And lost what honor won. Philip Freneau.
THE YANKEE PRIVATEER [July, 1779] Come listen and I'll tell you How first I went to sea, To fight against the British And earn our liberty. We shipped with Cap'n Whipple Who never knew a fear, The Captain of the Providence, The Yankee Privateer. We sailed and we sailed And made good cheer, There were many pretty men On the Yankee Privateer. The British Lord High Admiral He wished old Whipple harm, He wrote that he would hang him At the end of his yard arm. "My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back, "It seems to me it's clear That if you want to hang him, You must catch your Privateer." We sailed and we sailed And made good cheer, For not a British frigate Could come near the Privateer. We sailed to the south'ard, And nothing did we meet, Till we found three British frigates And their West Indian fleet. Old Whipple shut our ports As we crawled up near, And he sent us all below On the Yankee Privateer. So slowly he sailed We dropped to the rear, And not a soul suspected The Yankee Privateer. At night we put the lights out And forward we ran And silently we boarded The biggest merchantman. We knocked down the watch,— And the lubbers shook for fear, She's a prize without a shot To the Yankee Privateer. We sent the prize north While we lay near And all day we slept On the bold Privateer. For ten nights we followed, And ere the moon rose, Each night a prize we'd taken Beneath the Lion's nose. When the British looked to see Why their ships should disappear, They found they had in convoy A Yankee Privateer. But we sailed and sailed And made good cheer! Not a coward was on board Of the Yankee Privateer. The biggest British frigate Bore round to give us chase, But though he was the fleeter Old Whipple wouldn't race, Till he'd raked her fore and aft, For the lubbers couldn't steer, Then he showed them the heels Of the Yankee Privateer. Then we sailed and we sailed And we made good cheer, For not a British frigate Could come near the Privateer. Then northward we sailed To the town we all know, And there lay our prizes All anchored in a row; And welcome were we To our friends so dear, And we shared a million dollars On the bold Privateer. We'd sailed and we'd sailed And we made good cheer, We had all full pockets On the bold Privateer. Then we each manned a ship And our sails we unfurled, And we bore the Stars and Stripes O'er the oceans of the world. From the proud flag of Britain We swept the seas clear, And we earned our independence On the Yankee Privateer. Then landsmen and sailors, One more cheer! Here is three times three For the Yankee Privateer! Arthur Hale.
PAUL JONES In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight. With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was fitting out for the following year. [1778] '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 aboard, 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 gayly 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 short'ning 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 own top-sails three, Her spanker and her standing jib—the courses being free; "Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!" 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 abreast 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 top-sail 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 amidst 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—A NEW SONG Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four, That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er, For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones, As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones. Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue, At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too, The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoans The losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones. How happy for England, would Fortune but sweep At once all her treacherous foes to the deep; For the land under burthens most bitterly groans, To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones. To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend, In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend, May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd, Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd! If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd, The Leaders in office to shove from the board; May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bones Of Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!
PAUL JONES [September 23, 1779] An American frigate from Baltimore came, Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name; Went to cruise in the channel of old England, With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man. We had not sail'd long before we did espy A large forty-four, and a twenty close by: These two warlike ships, full laden with store, Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore. At the hour of twelve, Pierce came alongside. With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried; "Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before, Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour." Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run: Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;" When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen, We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again. We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot, Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot, And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore, Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar. Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came, "Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;" Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride, "If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside." At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand: The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down, Which caused the heart of Richard to ache. Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize, A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise; They are both noble vessels, well laden with store! We will toss off the can to our country once more. God help the poor widows, who shortly must weep For the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep! We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand, Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.
THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS [September 23, 1779] O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet, The guardian of a numerous fleet, Serapis from the Baltic came: A ship of less tremendous force Sail'd by her side the self-same course, Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name. And now their native coasts appear, Britannia's hills their summits rear Above the German main; Fond to suppose their dangers o'er, They southward coast along the shore, Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain. Full forty guns Serapis bore, And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four, Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars— What flag that rides the Gallic seas Shall dare attack such piles as these, Design'd for tumults and for wars! Now from the top-mast's giddy height A seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sight Approach with favoring gales." Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet, Stood off to sea, these ships to meet, And closely brac'd his shivering sails. With him advanc'd the Countess bold, Like a black tar in wars grown old: And now these floating piles drew nigh. But, muse, unfold what chief of fame In the other warlike squadron came, Whose standards at his mast-head fly. 'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led As bold a crew as ever bled Upon the sky-surrounded main; The standards of the western world Were to the willing winds unfurl'd, Denying Britain's tyrant reign. The Good-Man-Richard led the line; The Alliance next: with these combine The Gallic ship they Pallas call, The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame; These to attack the Britons came— But two accomplish'd all. Now Phoebus sought his pearly bed: But who can tell the scenes of dread, The horrors of that fatal night! Close up these floating castles came: The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame; Serapis trembled at the sight. She felt the fury of her ball: Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall; The decks were strew'd with slain: Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd; And, while the black artillery flash'd, Loud thunders shook the main. Alas! that mortals should employ Such murdering engines to destroy That frame by heaven so nicely join'd; Alas! that e'er the god decreed That brother should by brother bleed, And pour'd such madness in the mind. But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear, The rights of man demand your care: For these you dare the greedy waves. No tyrant, on destruction bent, Has plann'd thy conquest—thou art sent To humble tyrants and their slaves. See!—dread Serapis flames again— And art thou, Jones, among the slain, And sunk to Neptune's caves below?— He lives—though crowds around him fall, Still he, unhurt, survives them all; Almost alone he fights the foe. And can your ship these strokes sustain? Behold your brave companions slain, All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace; Strike, or be sunk—the Briton cries— Sink if you can—the chief replies, Fierce lightnings blazing in his face. Then to the side three guns he drew (Almost deserted by his crew), And charg'd them deep with woe; By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls; His main-mast totters—down it falls— O'erwhelming half below. Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield, But scarce his secret fears conceal'd, And thus was heard to cry— "With hell, not mortals, I contend; What art thou—human, or a fiend, That dost my force defy? "Return, my lads, the fight renew!"— So call'd bold Pearson to his crew; But call'd, alas! in vain; Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead; Some to their deep recesses fled, And hosts were shrouded in the main. Distress'd, forsaken, and alone, He haul'd his tatter'd standard down, And yielded to his gallant foe; Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,— Thus both their haughty colors struck, Confessing what the brave can do. But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy These ships possest so gloriously, Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray: Thy barque that bore the conquering flame, That the proud Briton overcame, Even she forsook thee on thy way; For when the morn began to shine, Fatal to her, the ocean brine Pour'd through each spacious wound; Quick in the deep she disappear'd; But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd, With conquest and with glory crown'd. Go on, great man, to scourge the foe, And bid these haughty Britons know They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend; Those Stars that, veil'd in dark attire, Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire, But radiant now ascend. Bend to the Stars that flaming rise In western, not in eastern, skies, Fair Freedom's reign restored— So when the Magi, come from far, Beheld the God-attending Star, They trembled and ador'd. Philip Freneau.
BARNEY'S INVITATION [April, 1782] Come all ye lads who know no fear, To wealth and honor with me steer In the Hyder Ali privateer, Commanded by brave Barney. She's new and true, and tight and sound, Well rigged aloft, and all well found— Come away and be with laurel crowned, Away—and leave your lasses. Accept our terms without delay, And make your fortunes while you may, Such offers are not every day In the power of the jolly sailor. Success and fame attend the brave, But death the coward and the slave, Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave, To seek the bold invaders. Come, then, and take a cruising bout, Our ship sails well, there is no doubt, She has been tried both in and out, And answers expectation. Let no proud foes whom Europe bore, Distress our trade, insult our shore— Teach them to know their reign is o'er, Bold Philadelphia sailors! We'll teach them how to sail so near, Or to venture on the Delaware, When we in warlike trim appear And cruise without Henlopen. Who cannot wounds and battle dare Shall never clasp the blooming fair; The brave alone their charms should share, The brave are their protectors. With hand and heart united all, Prepared to conquer or to fall, Attend, my lads, to honor's call, Embark in our Hyder Ali. From an Eastern prince she takes her name, Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame, Usurping Britons brought to shame, His country's wrongs avenging; See, on her stern the waving stars— Inured to blood, inured to wars, Come, enter quick, my jolly tars, To scourge these warlike Britons. Here's grog enough—then drink a bout, I know your hearts are firm and stout; American blood will never give out, And often we have proved it. Though stormy oceans round us roll, We'll keep a firm undaunted soul, Befriended by the cheering bowl, Sworn foes to melancholy: When timorous landsmen lurk on shore, 'Tis ours to go where cannons roar— On a coasting cruise we'll go once more, Despisers of all danger; And Fortune still, who crowns the brave, Shall guard us over the gloomy wave; A fearful heart betrays the knave— Success to the Hyder Ali. Philip Freneau.
SONG ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY OVER THE SHIP GENERAL MONK [April 8, 1782] O'er the waste of waters cruising, Long the General Monk had reigned; All subduing, all reducing, None her lawless rage restrained: Many a brave and hearty fellow Yielding to this warlike foe, When her guns began to bellow Struck his humbled colors low. But grown bold with long successes, Leaving the wide watery way, She, a stranger to distresses, Came to cruise within Cape May: "Now we soon (said Captain Rogers) Shall their men of commerce meet; In our hold we'll have them lodgers, We shall capture half their fleet. "Lo! I see their van appearing— Back our topsails to the mast— They toward us full are steering With a gentle western blast: I've a list of all their cargoes, All their guns, and all their men: I am sure these modern Argos Can't escape us one in ten: "Yonder comes the Charming Sally Sailing with the General Greene— First we'll fight the Hyder Ali, Taking her is taking them: She intends to give us battle, Bearing down with all her sail— Now, boys, let our cannon rattle! To take her we cannot fail. "Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder, Soon shall terrify this foe; We shall maul her, we shall wound her, Bringing rebel colors low."— While he thus anticipated Conquests that he could not gain, He in the Cape May channel waited For the ship that caused his pain. Captain Barney then preparing, Thus addressed his gallant crew— "Now, brave lads, be bold and daring, Let your hearts be firm and true; This is a proud English cruiser, Roving up and down the main, We must fight her—must reduce her, Though our decks be strewed with slain. "Let who will be the survivor, We must conquer or must die, We must take her up the river, Whate'er comes of you or I: Though she shows most formidable With her eighteen pointed nines, And her quarters clad in sable, Let us balk her proud designs. "With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixes We will face that daring band; Let no dangers damp your courage, Nothing can the brave withstand. Fighting for your country's honor, Now to gallant deeds aspire; Helmsman, bear us down upon her, Gunner, give the word to fire!" Then yardarm and yardarm meeting, Strait began the dismal fray, Cannon mouths, each other greeting, Belched their smoky flames away: Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot, That from Barney's cannons flew, Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top, Killed and wounded half her crew. Captain Rogers strove to rally But they from their quarters fled, While the roaring Hyder Ali Covered o'er his decks with dead. When from their tops their dead men tumbled, And the streams of blood did flow, Then their proudest hopes were humbled By their brave inferior foe. All aghast, and all confounded, They beheld their champions fall, And their captain, sorely wounded, Bade them quick for quarters call. Then the Monk's proud flag descended, And her cannon ceased to roar; By her crew no more defended, She confessed the contest o'er. Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses, You have humbled one proud foe, No brave action this surpasses, Fame shall tell the nation so— Thus be Britain's woes completed, Thus abridged her cruel reign, Till she ever, thus defeated, Yields the sceptre of the main. Philip Freneau.
THE SOUTH CAROLINA [December 19, 1782] My dear brother Ned, We are knock'd on the head, No more let America boast; We may all go to bed, And that's enough said, For the South Carolina we've lost. The pride of our eyes, I swear is a prize, You never will see her again, Unless thro' surprise, You are brought where she lies, A prisoner from the false main. Oh Lord! what a sight!— I was struck with affright, When the Diomede's shot round us fell, I feared that in spite, They'd have slain us outright, And sent us directly to h—l. The Quebec did fire, Or I'm a curs'd liar, And the Astrea came up apace; We could not retire From the confounded fire, They all were so eager in chase. The Diomede's shot Was damnation hot, She was several times in a blaze; To go then to pot, But I veow, I was struck with amaze. And Ned, may I die, Or be pok'd in a sty, If ever I venture again Where bullets do fly, And the wounded do cry, Tormented with anguish and pain. The Hope, I can tell, And the brig Constance fell, I swear, and I veow, in our sight; The first I can say, Was taken by day, But the latter was taken at night. I die to relate What has been our fate, How sadly our navies are shrunk; The pride of our State Begins to abate, For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk. The Congress must bend, We shall fall in the end, For the curs'd British sarpents are tough; But, I think as you find, I have enough penn'd Of such cursÈd, such vexatious stuff. Yet how vexing to find We are left all behind, That by sad disappointment we're cross'd; Ah, fortune unkind! Thou afflicted'st my mind, When the South Carolina we lost. Our enemy vile, Cunning Digby does smile, Is pleasÈd at our mischance; He useth each wile Our fleets to beguile, And to check our commerce with France. No more as a friend, Our ships to defend, Of South Carolina we boast; As a foe in the end, She will us attend, For the South Carolina we've lost. CHAPTER IXNEW YORK AND THE "NEUTRAL GROUND"
SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES [1779] Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true, Here are axes and shovels, and something to do! For the sake of our King, Come labor and sing. You left all you had for his honor and glory, And he will remember the suffering Tory. We have, it is true, Some small work to do; But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day, And never regard what the rebels may say, But throw off your jerkins and labor away. To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall, To pull down old houses and dig the canal, To build and destroy, Be this your employ, In the daytime to work at our fortifications, And steal in the night from the rebels your rations. The King wants your aid, Not empty parade; Advance to your places, ye men of long faces, Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces; This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases. Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer, The French and the rebels are coming next summer, And the forts we must build Though the Tories are killed. Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King, For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing. If York we can hold, I'll have you enroll'd; And after you're dead, your names shall be read, As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled, And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread. 'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations, And be left to be hanged in their capitulations. Then scour up your mortars, And stand to your quarters, 'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run, They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun; Their hearts should not fail 'em, No balls will assail 'em, Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces, For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not, Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot. Philip Freneau.
THE STORMING OF STONY POINT [July 16, 1779] Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass, Night on the stars of their battle-flag, Threading the maze of the dark morass Under the frown of the Thunder Crag; Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps, Trim in their trappings of buff and blue, Silent, they skirted the rugged shore, Grim in the promise of work to do. "Cross ye the ford to the moated rock! Let not a whisper your march betray! Out with the flint from the musket lock! Now! let the bayonet find the way!" "Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear. Swift came the shot of the waking foe. Bright flashed the axe of the Pioneer Smashing the abatis, blow on blow. Little they tarried for British might! Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers! Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height, Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers! Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once more Sentinel giants of Freedom's throne, Massive and proud! to the Eastern shore Bellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!" Echo our cheers for the Men of old! Shout for the Hero who led his band Braving the death that his heart foretold Over the parapet, "spear in hand!" Arthur Guiterman. WAYNE AT STONY POINT [July 16, 1779] 'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide, Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide, Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird, Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred. Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest; Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest. Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fen File upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men? Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred; Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard; Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right. Hark,—the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms! Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry, To arms! Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare; Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air: Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are set Now at the bastion's base, now on the parapet! Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall, Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball; Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,— Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride! Forward, my braves! he cries, and the heroes hearten again; Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men! Die!—did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime? Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime! Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar, From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore; But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more bright Than his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night. Clinton Scollard.
AARON BURR'S WOOING In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton retreated toward Elizabethtown. [June 23, 1780] You know there goes a tale, How Jonas went on board a whale, Once, for a frolic; And how the whale Set sail And got the cholic; And, after a great splutter, Spew'd him up upon the coast, Just like woodcock on a toast, With trail and butter. There also goes a joke, How Clinton went on board the Duke Count Rochambeau to fight; As he didn't fail To set sail The first fair gale, For once we thought him right; But, after a great clutter, He turn'd back along the coast, And left the French to make their boast, And Englishmen to mutter. Just so, not long before, Old Knyp, And old Clip Went to the Jersey shore, The rebel rogues to beat; But, at Yankee farms, They took alarms, At little harms, And quickly did retreat. Then after two days' wonder, March'd boldly up to Springfield town, And swore they'd knock the rebels down. But as their foes Gave them some blows, They, like the wind, Soon changed their mind. And, in a crack, Returned back, From not one third their number.
CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD [June 23, 1780] Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,— You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word Down at Springfield? What, No? Come—that's bad; why he had All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God,—and he hated King George! He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But God—and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot! Enough!—there she lay, And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away! Did he preach—did he pray? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day;—think of him and his band Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance,—of that straggling retreat! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,— And what could you, what should you, what would you do? Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots, Rang his voice,—"Put Watts into 'em,—Boys, give 'em Watts!" And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,— But not always a hero like this,—and that's all. Bret Harte.
[July 21, 1780] CANTO I To drive the kine one summer's morn, The Tanner took his way; The calf shall rue that is unborn The jumbling of that day. And Wayne descending steers shall know, And tauntingly deride; And call to mind in every low, The tanning of his hide. Yet Bergen cows still ruminate, Unconscious in the stall, What mighty means were used to get, And loose them after all. For many heroes bold and brave, From Newbridge and Tappan, And those that drink Passaic's wave, And those who eat supawn; And sons of distant Delaware, And still remoter Shannon, And Major Lee with horses rare, And Proctor with his cannon. All wond'rous proud in arms they came, What hero could refuse To tread the rugged path to fame, Who had a pair of shoes! At six, the host with sweating buff, Arrived at Freedom's pole; When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough, Thus speechified the whole: "O ye, whom glory doth unite, Who Freedom's cause espouse; Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight, Or that to drive the cows, "Ere yet you tempt your further way, Or into action come, Hear, soldiers, what I have to say, And take a pint of rum. "Intemp'rate valor then will string Each nervous arm the better; So all the land shall I O sing, And read the Gen'ral's letter. "Know that some paltry refugees, Whom I've a mind to fright, Are playing h—l amongst the trees That grow on yonder height. "Their fort and blockhouses we'll level, And deal a horrid slaughter; We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil, And ravish wife and daughter. "I, under cover of th' attack, Whilst you are all at blows, From English neighb'rhood and Nyack, Will drive away the cows; "For well you know the latter is The serious operation, And fighting with the refugees Is only demonstration." His daring words, from all the crowd, Such great applause did gain, That every man declar'd aloud For serious work with Wayne. Then from the cask of rum once more, They took a heady gill; When one and all, they loudly swore, They'd fight upon the hill. But here—the Muse hath not a strain Befitting such great deeds; Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne, And shouting,—did their needs. CANTO II Near his meridian pomp, the sun Had journey'd from th' horizon; When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on, Of heroes drunk as pison. The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths, ReËchoed through the wood; Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes, And some to swim in blood. At Irving's nod 'twas fine to see The left prepare to fight; The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee, Drew off upon the right. Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate, Nor can the Muse assist her; Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat, Or he that gives a clyster. For greatly one was signaliz'd, That fought on Chestnut Hill; And Canada immortaliz'd The vender of the pill. Yet their attendance upon Proctor, They both might have to boast of; For there was business for the doctor, And hats to be disposed of. Let none uncandidly infer, That Stirling wanted spunk; The self-made peer had sure been there, But that the peer was drunk. But turn we to the Hudson's banks, Where stood the modest train, With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks, Nor car'd a pin for Wayne. For them the unrelenting hand Of rebel fury drove, And tore from ev'ry genial band Of friendship and of love. And some within the dungeon's gloom, By mock tribunals laid, Had waited long a cruel doom Impending o'er each head. Here one bewails a brother's fate, There one a sire demands, Cut off, alas! before their date, By ignominious hands. And silver'd grandsires here appear'd In deep distress serene, Of reverent manners that declar'd The better days they'd seen. Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine, Thine all these tales of woe; Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine Blood never cease to flow? And now the foe began to lead His forces to th' attack; Balls whistling unto balls succeed, And make the blockhouse crack. No shot could pass, if you will take The Gen'ral's word for true; But 'tis a d——ble mistake, For ev'ry shot went thro'. The firmer as the rebels press'd, The loyal heroes stand; Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast, And industry each hand. In valor's frenzy, Hamilton Rode like a soldier big, And Secretary Harrison, With pen stuck in his wig. But lest their chieftain, Washington, Should mourn them in the mumps, The fate of Withrington to shun, They fought behind the stumps. But ah, Thaddeus Posset, why Should thy poor soul elope? And why should Titus Hooper die, Ay, die—without a rope? Apostate Murphy, thou to whom Fair Shela ne'er was cruel, In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom, "Och! would ye die, my jewel?" Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament, Of melancholy fate; The gray goose stolen as he went, In his heart's blood was wet. Now, as the fight was further fought, And balls began to thicken, The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought, The color of a lickin'. Yet undismay'd the chiefs command, And to redeem the day, Cry, Soldiers, charge! they hear, they stand, They turn and run away. CANTO III Not all delights the bloody spear, Or horrid din of battle; There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hear A word about the cattle. The chief whom we beheld of late, Near Schralenberg haranging, At Yan Van Poop's unconscious sat Of Irving's hearty banging. Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild, Most bravely did oppose The tears of woman and of child, Who begg'd he'd leave the cows. But Wayne, of sympathizing heart, Required a relief, Not all the blessings could impart Of battle or of beef. For now a prey to female charms, His soul took more delight in A lovely hamadryad's arms, Than cow-driving or fighting. A nymph the refugees had drove Far from her native tree, Just happen'd to be on the move, When up came Wayne and Lee. She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye, The hero saw portray'd, And all in tears she took him by— The bridle of his jade. "Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander! No human lamentations; The trees you see them cutting yonder, Are all my near relations. "And I, forlorn! implore thine aid, To free the sacred grove; So shall thy prowess be repaid With an immortal's love." Now some, to prove she was a goddess, Said this enchanting fair Had late retirÈd from the Bodies In all the pomp of war. The drums and merry fifes had play'd To honor her retreat, The lady through the street. Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd, To no inquiry stoops, But takes the fair afflicted maid Right into Yan Van Poop's. So Roman Anthony, they say, Disgraced th' imperial banner, And for a gypsy lost a day, Like Anthony the tanner. The hamadryad had but half Receiv'd redress from Wayne, When drums and colors, cow and calf, Came down the road amain. And in a cloud of dust was seen The sheep, the horse, the goat, The gentle heifer, ass obscene, The yearling and the shoat. And pack-horses with fowls came by, Be-feather'd on each side, Like Pegasus, the horse that I And other poets ride. Sublime upon his stirrups rose The mighty Lee behind, And drove the terror-smitten cows Like chaff before the wind. But sudden see the woods above Pour down another corps, All helter-skelter in a drove, Like that I sung before. Irving and terror in the van, Came flying all abroad; And cannon, colors, horse, and man, Ran tumbling to the road. Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry, And his example too, "Run on, my merry men—for why? The shot will not go thro'." As when two kennels in the street, Swell'd with a recent rain, In gushing streams together meet And seek the neighboring drain; So met these dung-born tribes in one, As swift in their career, And so to Newbridge they ran on— But all the cows got clear. Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder, Saw the returning train, And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunder For them to steal again. For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, and To share with each commander, As he had done at Staten Island With frost-bit Alexander. In his dismay, the frantic priest Began to grow prophetic; You'd swore, to see his laboring breast, He'd taken an emetic. "I view a future day," said he, "Brighter than this dark day is; And you shall see what you shall see, Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis! "And he shall come to Paulus Hook, And great achievements think on; And make a bow and take a look, Like Satan over Lincoln. "And every one around shall glory To see the Frenchman caper; And pretty Susan tell the story In the next Chatham paper." This solemn prophecy, of course, Gave all much consolation, Except to Wayne, who lost his horse Upon that great occasion. His horse that carried all his prog, His military speeches, His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog, Blue stockings and brown breeches. And now I've clos'd my epic strain, I tremble as I show it, Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne, Should ever catch the poet. John AndrÉ.
BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY [September 23, 1780] Come all you brave Americans, And unto me give ear, And I'll sing you a ditty That will your spirits cheer, Concerning a young gentleman Whose age was twenty-two; He fought for North America, His heart was just and true. They took him from his dwelling, And they did him confine, They cast him into prison, And kept him there a time. But he with resolution Resolv'd not long to stay; He set himself at liberty, And soon he ran away. He with a scouting-party Went down to Tarrytown, Where he met a British officer, A man of high renown, Who says unto these gentlemen, "You're of the British cheer, I trust that you can tell me If there's any danger near?" Then up stept this young hero, John Paulding was his name, "Sir, tell us where you're going, And, also, whence you came?" "I bear the British flag, sir; I've a pass to go this way, I'm on an expedition, And have no time to stay." Then round him came this company, And bid him to dismount; "Come, tell us where you're going, Give us a strict account; For we are now resolvÈd That you shall ne'er pass by." Upon examination They found he was a spy. He beggÈd for his liberty, He plead for his discharge, And oftentimes he told them, If they'd set him at large, "Here's all the gold and silver I have laid up in store, But when I reach the city, I'll give you ten times more." "I scorn the gold and silver You have laid up in store, And when you get to New York, You need not send us more; But you may take your sword in hand To gain your liberty, And if that you do conquer me, Oh, then you shall be free." "The time it is improper Our valor for to try, For if we take our swords in hand, Then one of us must die; I am a man of honor, With courage true and bold, And I fear not the man of clay, Although he's cloth'd in gold." He saw that his conspiracy Would soon be brought to light; He begg'd for pen and paper, And askÈd leave to write A line to General Arnold, To let him know his fate, And beg for his assistance; But now it was too late. When the news it came to Arnold, It put him in a fret; He walk'd the room in trouble, Till tears his cheek did wet; The story soon went through the camp, And also through the fort; And he callÈd for the Vulture And sailÈd for New York. Now Arnold to New York has gone, A-fighting for his king, And left poor Major AndrÉ On the gallows for to swing; When he was executed, He look'd both meek and mild; And pleasantly he smil'd. It mov'd each eye with pity, Caus'd every heart to bleed, And every one wished him releas'd And Arnold in his stead. He was a man of honor, In Britain he was born; To die upon the gallows Most highly he did scorn. A bumper to John Paulding! Now let your voices sound, Fill up your flowing glasses, And drink his health around; Also to those young gentlemen Who bore him company; Success to North America, Ye sons of liberty!
ARNOLD THE VILE TRAITOR [September 25, 1780] Arnold! the name, as heretofore, Shall now be Benedict no more: Since, instigated by the devil, Thy ways are turned from good to evil. 'Tis fit we brand thee with a name To suit thy infamy and shame; And, since of treason thou'rt convicted, Thy name shall be maledicted. Unless, by way of contradiction, We style thee Britain's Benediction. Such blessings she, with lavish hand, Confers on this devoted land. For instance, only let us mention Some proof of her benign intention; The slaves she sends us o'er the deep, And bribes to cut our throats in sleep. To take our lives and scalps away, The savage Indians keeps in pay, And Tories worse, by half, than they. Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,— The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,— Recorded Arnold's name shall stand, While Freedom's blessings crown our land, And odious for the blackest crimes, Arnold shall stink to latest times. EPIGRAM Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow, I love you much better than ever I did; You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,— But mind that you both do just what I bid." Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me! I will strictly adhere to all your great views; To you I'm devoted, with all things about me— You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes." New Jersey Gazette, November 1, 1780.
ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON [October 1, 1780] It is not the fear of death That damps my brow, It is not for another breath I ask thee now; I can die with a lip unstirr'd And a quiet heart— Let but this prayer be heard Ere I depart. I can give up my mother's look— My sister's kiss; I can think of love—yet brook A death like this! I can give up the young fame I burn'd to win— All—but the spotless name I glory in. Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, Joy for the hour I live— Calmness to die. By all the brave should cherish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish By a soldier's death! Nathaniel Parker Willis.
ANDRÉ This is the place where AndrÉ met that death Whose infamy was keenest of its throes, And in this place of bravely yielded breath His ashes found a fifty years' repose; And then, at last, a transatlantic grave, With those who have been kings in blood or fame, As Honor here some compensation gave For that once forfeit to a hero's name. But whether in the Abbey's glory laid, Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore, Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed The loving pity and regret they bore. In view of all he lost,—his youth, his love, And possibilities that wait the brave, Inward and outward bound, dim visions move Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave. The country's Father! how do we revere His justice,—Brutus-like in its decree,— With AndrÉ-sparing mercy, still more dear Had been his name,—if that, indeed, could be! Charlotte Fiske Bates.
SERGEANT CHAMPE [October 20, 1780] Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys, And listen to the story, How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night, Set off to catch the Tory. You see the general had got mad To think his plans were thwarted, And swore by all, both good and bad, That Arnold should be carted. So unto Lee he sent a line, And told him all his sorrow, And said that he must start the hunt Before the coming morrow. Lee found a sergeant in his camp, Made up of bone and muscle, Who ne'er knew fear, and many a year With Tories had a tussle. Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip, All button'd up from weather, Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip, And soon was in the heather. He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook, Improving every instant— Until a patrol, wide awake, Descried him in the distance. On coming up, the guard call'd out And asked him where he's going— To which he answer'd with his spur, And left him in the mowing. The bushes pass'd him like the wind, And pebbles flew asunder, The guard was left far, far behind, All mix'd with mud and wonder. Lee's troops paraded, all alive, Although 'twas one the morning, And counting o'er a dozen or more, One sergeant is found wanting. A little hero, full of spunk, But not so full of judgment, Press'd Major Lee to let him go, With the bravest of his reg'ment. Lee summon'd cornet Middleton, ExpressÈd what was urgent, And gave him orders how to go To catch the rambling sergeant. Then forty troopers, more or less, Set off across the meader; 'Bout thirty-nine went jogging on A-following their leader. At early morn, adown a hill, They saw the sergeant sliding; So fast he went, it was not ken't Whether he's rode, or riding. None lookÈd back, but on they spurr'd, A-gaining every minute. To see them go, 'twould done you good, You'd thought old Satan in it. The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck, And took another tracing, He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook, Elizabethtown facing. It was the custom of Sir Hal To send his galleys cruising, And so it happenÈd just then That two were at Van Deusen's. Strait unto these the sergeant went, And left old Rip, all standing, A-waiting for the blown cornet, At Squire Van Deusen's landing. The troopers didn't gallop home, But rested from their labors; And some 'tis said took gingerbread And cider from the neighbors. 'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'd The camp they left that morning. Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee, Gave an unwelcome warning. "If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;" So thought the generous major; "I would not have his garment touch'd For millions on a wager!" The cornet told him all he knew, Excepting of the cider. The troopers, all, spurred very well, But Champe was the best rider! And so it happen'd that brave Champe Unto Sir Hal deserted, Deceiving him, and you, and me, And into York was flirted. He saw base Arnold in his camp, Surrounded by the legion, And told him of the recent prank That threw him in that region. Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands, And e'enmost choked with pleasure, Not thinking Champe was all the while A "taking of his measure." "Come now," says he, "my bold soldier, As you're within our borders, Let's drink our fill, old care to kill, To-morrow you'll have orders." Full soon the British fleet set sail! Say! wasn't that a pity? For thus it was brave Sergeant Champe Was taken from the city. To southern climes the shipping flew, And anchored in Virginia, When Champe escaped and join'd his friends Among the picininni. Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd, Poor AndrÉ was gibbeted; Arnold's to blame for AndrÉ's fame, And AndrÉ's to be pitied.
A NEW SONG [1780] Another of Stansbury's lyrics, and perhaps the best he ever wrote, is "The Lords of the Main," intended for the use of the British sailors then engaged in fighting their ancient foes, France and Spain. THE LORDS OF THE MAIN [1780] When Faction, in league with the treacherous Gaul, Began to look big, and paraded in state, A meeting was held at Credulity Hall, And Echo proclaimed their ally good and great. By sea and by land Such wonders are planned— No less than the bold British lion to chain! "Well hove!" says Jack Lanyard, "French, Congo, and Spaniard, Have at you!—remember, we're Lords of the Main. Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main; The Tars of old England are Lords of the Main!" Though party-contention awhile may perplex, And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense, If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex, In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence. When danger alarms, 'Tis then that in arms United we rush on the foe with disdain; And when the storm rages, It only presages Fresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main! Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main— Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main! Then, Britons, strike home—make sure of your blow: The chase is in view—never mind a lea shore. With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe: 'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore! Brave Anson, and Drake, Hawke, Russell, and Blake, With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain! Combining with treason, They're deaf to all reason; Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main. Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main— The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main! Joseph Stansbury.
THE ROYAL ADVENTURER [1781] Prince William, of the Brunswick race, To witness George's sad disgrace The royal lad came over, Derived from that illustrious 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." Philip Freneau.
THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX [July 22, 1781] July the twenty-second day, The precise hour I will not say, In seventeen hundred and eighty-one, A horrid action was begun. While to the Lord they sing and pray, The Tories who in ambush lay, Beset the house with brazen face, At Middlesex, it was the place. A guard was plac'd the house before, Likewise behind and at each door; Then void of shame, those men of sin The sacred temple enter'd in. The reverend Mather closed his book, How did the congregation look! Those demons plunder'd all they could, Either in silver or in gold. The silver buckles which we use, Both at the knees and on the shoes, These caitiffs took them in their rage, Had no respect for sex or age. As they were searching all around, They several silver watches found; While they who're plac'd as guards without, Like raging devils rang'd about. Run forty horses to the shore, Not many either less or more; With bridles, saddles, pillions on; In a few minutes all was done. The men from hence they took away, Upon that awful sacred day, Was forty-eight, besides two more They chanc'd to find upon the shore. On board the shipping they were sent, Their money gone, and spirits spent, This wicked seizure did portend. They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd, And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first; 'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrong To bring so many men along. Then every man must tell his name, A list they took, and kept the same; When twenty-four of fifty men Were order'd to go home again. The twenty-six who stay'd behind, Most cruelly they were confin'd; On board the brig were order'd quick, And then confin'd beneath the deck. A dismal hole with filth besmear'd, But 'twas no more than what we fear'd; Sad the confinement, dark the night, But then the devil thought 'twas right. But to return whence I left off. They at our misery made a scoff; Like raving madmen tore about, Swearing they'd take our vitals out. They said no quarter they would give Nor let a cursÈd rebel live; But would their joints in pieces cut, Then round the deck like turkeys strut. July, the fourth and twentieth day, We all marched off to Oyster Bay; To increase our pains and make it worse, They iron'd just six pair of us. But as they wanted just one pair, An iron stirrup lying there Was taken and on anvil laid, On which they with a hammer paid. And as they beat it inch by inch, They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch; Those wretched caitiffs standing by, Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry. Although to call them not by name, From Fairfield county many came; And were delighted with the rout, To see the rebels kick'd about. At night we travell'd in the rain, All begg'd for shelter, but in vain, Though almost naked to the skin; A dismal pickle we were in. Then to the half-way house we came, The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name, And there we found a soul's relief; We almost miss'd our dreadful grief. The people gen'rously behav'd, Made a good fire, some brandy gave, Of which we greatly stood in need, As we were wet and cold indeed. But ere the house we did attain, We trembled so with cold and rain, Our irons jingled—well they might— We shiver'd so that stormy night. In half an hour or thereabout, The orders were, "Come, all turn out! Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew, To loiter thus will never do." 'Twas now about the break of day, When all were forc'd to march away; With what they order'd we complied, Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried. We made a halt one half mile short Of what is term'd Brucklyn's fort; Where all were hurried through the street: Some overtook us, some we met. We now traversing the parade, The awful figure which we made, Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment, And some would curse us as we went. Their grandest fort was now hard by us; They show'd us that to terrify us; They show'd us all their bulwarks there, To let be known how strong they were. Just then the Tory drums did sound, And pipes rang out a warlike round; Supposing we must thence conclude That Britain ne'er could be subdued. Up to the guard-house we were led, Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread; Not quite one mouthful, I believe, For every man we did receive. In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd, And at New York arriv'd at last; Ten thousand curses round us rang. But some would laugh, and some would sneer, And some would grin, and others leer; A mixÈd mob, a medley crew, I guess as e'er the devil knew. To the Provost we then were haul'd, Though we of war were prisoners call'd; Our irons now were order'd off, And we were left to sneeze and cough. But oh! what company we found. With great surprise we look'd around: I must conclude that in that place, We found the worst of Adam's race. Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too, And everything that's bad they'd do; One of our men found to his cost, Three pounds, York money, he had lost. They pick'd his pocket quite before We had been there one single hour; And while he lookÈd o'er and o'er, The vagrants from him stole some more. We soon found out, but thought it strange We never were to be exchang'd By a cartel, but for some men Whom they desir'd to have again. A pack with whom they well agree, Who're call'd the loyal company, Or "Loyalists Associated," As by themselves incorporated. Our food was call'd two-thirds in weight Of what a soldier has to eat; We had no blankets in our need, Till a kind friend did intercede. Said he, "The prisoners suffer so, 'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too; I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed, So great their hardship and their need." And well to us was the event, Fine blankets soon to us were sent; Small the allowance, very small, But better far than none at all. An oaken plank, it was our bed, An oaken pillow for the head, And room as scanty as our meals, For we lay crowded head and heels. In seven days or thereabout, One Jonas Weed was taken out, And to his friends he was resign'd, But many still were kept behind. Soon after this some were parol'd, Too tedious wholly to be told; And some from bondage were unstrung, Whose awful sufferings can't be sung. The dread smallpox to some they gave, Nor tried at all their lives to save, But rather sought their desolation, As they denied 'em 'noculation. To the smallpox there did succeed A putrid fever, bad indeed; As they before were weak and spent, Soon from the stage of life they went. For wood we greatly stood in need, For which we earnestly did plead; But one tenth part of what we wanted Of wood, to us was never granted. The boiling kettles which we had, Were wanting covers, good or bad; The worst of rum that could be bought, For a great price, to us was brought. For bread and milk, and sugar, too, We had to pay four times their due; While cash and clothing which were sent, Those wretched creatures did prevent. Some time it was in dark November, But just the day I can't remember, Full forty of us were confin'd In a small room both damp and blind, Because there had been two or three, Who were not of our company, Who did attempt the other day, The Tories said, to get away. In eighteen days we were exchang'd, And through the town allowed to range; Of twenty-five that were ta'en, But just nineteen reach'd home again. Four days before December's gone, In seventeen hundred eighty-one, I hail'd the place where months before, The Tories took me from the shore. Peter St. John. CHAPTER XTHE WAR IN THE SOUTH
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowlÈd head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it, till our homes are free! Guard it! God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then. "Take thy banner! But when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him! By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him! he our love hath shared! Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared! "Take thy banner! and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
ABOUT SAVANNAH [October 9, 1779] Come let us rejoice, With heart and with voice, Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir, While bumpers go round, ReËcho the sound, Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir. With warlike parade, And his Irish brigade, His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir, As proud as an elf, D'Estaing came himself, And landed on Georgia's coast, sir. There joining a band Under Lincoln's command, Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir, He planted his banner, And then he felt wondrous big, sir. With thund'ring of guns, And bursting of bombs, He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir: But amidst all their din, Brave Maitland push'd in, And Moncrieffe cried, "A fig for your noise," sir. Chagrined at delay, As he meant not to stay, The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir. Van, centre, and rear March'd up without fear, Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir. Though rude was the shock, Unmov'd as a rock, Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir, While the brave German corps, And Americans bore Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir. Then muskets did rattle, Fierce ragÈd the battle, Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir. The ditch fill'd with slain, Blood dyed all the plain, When rebels and French turnÈd tail, sir. See! see! how they run! Lord! what glorious fun! How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir! Brains fly all around, Dying screeches resound, And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir. There Pulaski fell, That imp of old Bell, Who attempted to murder his king, sir. But now he is gone Whence he'll never return; But will make hell with treason to ring, sir. To Charleston with fear The rebels repair; D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir, Each blaming the other, Each cursing his brother, And—may they cut each other's throats, sir. Scarce three thousand men The town did maintain, 'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir, Who left on the plain, Of wounded and slain, Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir. Three thousand! no less! For the rebels confess Some loss, as you very well know, sir. Then let bumpers go round, And reËcho the sound, Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.
A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON [May 12, 1780] King Hancock sat in regal state, And big with pride and vainly great, Address'd his rebel crew: "These haughty Britons soon shall yield The boasted honors of the field, While our brave sons pursue. "Six thousand fighting men or more, Protect the Carolina shore, And Freedom will defend; And stubborn Britons soon shall feel, 'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel, How vainly they contend." But ere he spake, in dread array, To rebel foes, ill-fated day, The British boys appear; Their mien with martial ardor fir'd, And by their country's wrongs inspir'd, Shook Lincoln's heart with fear. See Clinton brave, serene, and great, For mighty deeds rever'd by fate, Direct the thund'ring fight, While Mars, propitious god of war, Looks down from his triumphal car With wonder and delight. "Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine, 'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine A great immortal name, Conspicuous each revolving year, The pledge of future fame." Our tars, their share of glories won, For they among the bravest shone, Undaunted, firm, and bold; Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd Hearts which with native valor glow'd, Hearts of true British mould.
THE SWAMP FOX We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton rides, We burrow in the cypress-tree. The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer's den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men. We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe. And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing sabre blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies. Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,— The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,— And we are Marion's men, you see. Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last perhaps that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste. He whistles to the scouts, and hark! You hear his order calm and low. Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go. We may not see their forms again, God help 'em, should they find the strife! For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. Now stir the fire and lie at ease,— The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel bend his knee, To take his slumbers too. But hush! He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray. Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that's there; I love not it should idly stand When Marion's men have need of cheer. 'Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught. Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed. The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank. What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep! But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight. We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress-tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we. And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men. William Gilmore Simms. 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, We 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 glitter of their rifles, 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. William Cullen Bryant.
MACDONALD'S RAID [1780] I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray, And the legion lay idle and listless that day, A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul, And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl, When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade, Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid. Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright, To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight; Yet he chose from our numbers four men and no more. "Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore, With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed. Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark, And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark; His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free, With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee, His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing— Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King! 'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride, Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms, When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout, With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without, Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring, "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout, That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt, And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they, "Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day. Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din! 'Tis the front wall besieged—have the rebels rushed in? It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring Of 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'" Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped, And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red; And the ground here and there by an ominous stain Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain: A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose, With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose, By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down, To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown, And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft, What should we do next, but—as careless and calm As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm 'Mid a land of pure peace—just serenely drop down On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town. What a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing, As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?— Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss, On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss, Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last; So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!" As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back, And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame: With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came, And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the trees Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees; Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!" Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us then? Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now— The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down, Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town: Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring— Ay! my muscles are firm still; I fought 'gainst the King! Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all The sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall; Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp; Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep— That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King. Paul Hamilton Hayne.
SUMTER'S BAND South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis, elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain, and either killed or captured. THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN [October 7, 1780] 'Twas on a pleasant mountain The Tory heathens lay, With a doughty major at their head, One Ferguson, they say. Cornwallis had detach'd him A-thieving for to go, And catch the Carolina men, Or bring the rebels low. The scamp had rang'd the country In search of royal aid, And with his owls, perchÈd on high, He taught them all his trade. But ah! that fatal morning, When Shelby brave drew near! 'Tis certainly a warning That ministers should hear. And Campbell, and Cleveland, And Colonel Sevier, Each with a band of gallant men, To Ferguson appear. Just as the sun was setting Behind the western hills, Just then our trusty rifles sent A dose of leaden pills. Up, up the steep together Brave Williams led his troop, And join'd by Winston, bold and true, Disturb'd the Tory coop. The royal slaves, the royal owls, Flew high on every hand; But soon they settled—gave a howl, And quarter'd to Cleveland. I would not tell the number Of Tories slain that day, But surely it is certain That none did run away. For all that were a-living, Were happy to give up; So let us make thanksgiving, And pass the bright tin-cup. To all the brave regiments, Let's toast 'em for their health, And may our good country Have quietude and wealth.
THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS [January 17, 1781] To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning, Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight; From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning, Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight. In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error, When his force was made our ready blows to feel; When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel. All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us, Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp; There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us, Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp. Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces, Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe; While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses, Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow. Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor That they scarce would care to follow us again; In the rear, the Continentals—none were readier, nor braver; In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men. Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall, Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses, Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall. Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing— It was then upon the very nick of nine. Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing, And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line. In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer, There was naught about them fearful, after all, Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer, "Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball." Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand; Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land. I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten. Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame; Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame. But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me— No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire; And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger; And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire. On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing; Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden; And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring. Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's; On your rifles and a careful aim rely. But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die." Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited, Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came: Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated; On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame. At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yelling Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone; With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne. On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks; Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring. Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks. Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er us Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground; Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us, Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around. Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain, Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar; Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore. Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve. Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden; Tarleton gave the closing order—"Bring to action the reserve!" Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring, Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks; And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring, Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks. By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward, And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe; We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward, With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low. Morgan gave his order clearly—"Fall back nearly to the border Of the hill and let the enemy come nigher!" Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder, When out rang the voice of Howard—"To the right about, face!—Fire!" Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley, And our balls made red a pathway down the hill; Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard— "Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"—and we did it with a will. In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster Than their comrades on our rear in fury bore; But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster, For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore. Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them; In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled; Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing, And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead. Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness— We had never seen such running in our lives! Having many years been parted from their children and their wives. Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them! To their home o'er ocean never sailing back; After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them, Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track. In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white; When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight. For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin; 'Twas my sister's—for the moment things around me were forsaken; I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din. Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded; Vain to me they looked for succor in their need. O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded, Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed. As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered; Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim; As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered, For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him. Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him— Horse and rider—down together went the twain: "Quarter!"—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er him; Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain— Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain. Thomas Dunn English.
THE BATTLE OF EUTAW [September 8, 1781] Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain, And it speaks to our heart in its pride, As it tells of the bearing of heroes Who compassed its summits and died! How they gathered to strife as the eagles, When the foeman had clambered the height! How, with scent keen and eager as beagles, They hunted him down for the fight. Hark! through the gorge of the valley, 'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe; Our own quickly sounds for the rally, And we snatch down the rifle and go. As the hunter who hears of the panther, Each arms him and leaps to his steed, Rides forth through the desolate antre, With his knife and his rifle at need. From a thousand deep gorges they gather, From the cot lowly perched by the rill, The cabin half hid in the heather, 'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still; Each lonely at first in his roaming, Till the vale to the sight opens fair, And he sees the low cot through the gloaming, When his bugle gives tongue to the air. Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble For the hunt of the insolent foe, 'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow. Down the lone heights now wind they together, As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale, And now, as they group on the heather, The keen scout delivers his tale: "The British—the Tories are on us, And now is the moment to prove To the women whose virtues have won us, That our virtues are worthy their love! They have swept the vast valleys below us With fire, to the hills from the sea; And here would they seek to o'erthrow us In a realm which our eagle makes free!" No war-council suffered to trifle With the hours devote to the deed; Swift followed the grasp of the rifle, Swift followed the bound to the steed; And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen, All panting with rage at the sight, Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman, As he lay in his camp on the height. Grim dashed they away as they bounded, The hunters to hem in the prey, And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded, Then the British rose fast to the fray; And never with arms of more vigor Did their bayonets press through the strife. Where, with every swift pull of the trigger, The sharpshooters dashed out a life! 'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions; 'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves; Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance, Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves; Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle, As from danger to danger he flies. Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle, With its "touch me who dare" and he dies! An hour, and the battle is over; The eagles are rending the prey; The serpents seek flight into cover, But the terror still stands in the way: More dreadful the doom that on treason Avenges the wrongs of the state; And the oak-tree for many a season Bears fruit for the vultures of fate! William Gilmore Simms. EUTAW SPRINGS TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS, 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 Parthians 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. Philip Freneau.
THE DANCE 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, sir, 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?
CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER [October 19, 1781] When British troops first landed here, With Howe commander o'er them, They thought they'd make us quake for fear, And carry all before them; With thirty thousand men or more, And she without assistance, America must needs give o'er, And make no more resistance. But Washington, her glorious son, Of British hosts the terror, Soon, by repeated overthrows, Convinc'd them of their error; Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell, What gallant deeds he's done, sir, And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell, And thousands more have run, sir. Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd Virginia's old dominion, Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be; And so was North's opinion. From State to State with rapid stride, His troops had march'd before, sir, He thought all dangers o'er, sir. But our allies, to his surprise, The Chesapeake had enter'd; And now too late, he curs'd his fate, And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd, For Washington no sooner knew The visit he had paid her, Than to his parent State he flew, To crush the bold invader. When he sat down before the town, His Lordship soon surrender'd; His martial pride he laid aside, And cas'd the British standard; Gods! how this stroke will North provoke, And all his thoughts confuse, sir! And how the Peers will hang their ears, When first they hear the news, sir. Be peace, the glorious end of war, By this event effected; And be the name of Washington To latest times respected; Then let us toast America, And France in union with her; And may Great Britain rue the day Her hostile bands came hither. THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell, 'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell; 'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar, A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er. A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord, Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword, Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies too, And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?" A council to surrender this lord did then command; "What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend; Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's roar? De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore." 'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81, Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington; Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms; Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms. Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd, Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind; Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due, O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few. Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see, And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty; For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent, That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went. Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew, Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue; May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore, And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.
NEWS FROM YORKTOWN OCTOBER, 1781 "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How the voice rolled down the street With the stir of hurrying feet! In the hush of the Quaker city, As the night drew on to morn, How it startled the troubled sleepers, Like the cry for a man-child born! "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How they gathered, man and maid, Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock, There the trembling grandsire staid! From the stateliest homes of the city, From hovels that love might scorn, How they followed that ringing summons, Like the cry for a king's heir born! "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." I can see the quick lights flare, See the glad, wild face at the window, Half dumb in a breathless stare. In the pause of an hour portentous, In the gloom of a hope forlorn, How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens, Like the cry for a nation born! "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How the message is sped and gone To the farm and the town and the forest Till the world was one vast dawn! To distant and slave-sunk races, Bowed down in their chains that morn, How it swept on the winds of heaven, Like a cry for God's justice born! Lewis Worthington Smith. AN ANCIENT PROPHECY (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; And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive, 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.— Philip Freneau. CHAPTER XIPEACE
ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL [May, 1782] The dog that is beat has a right to complain— Sir Harry returns, a disconsolate swain, To the face of his master, the devil's anointed, To the country provided for thieves disappointed. Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall: He concluded the weakest must go to the wall. The more he was flatter'd, the bolder he grew: He quitted the old world to conquer the new. But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison (And they have been curious beyond all comparison), He now must go home, at the call of his king, To answer the charges that Arnold may bring. But what are the acts which this chief has achieved? If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved: And the more, as he fought for his national glory, Nor valued, a farthing, the right of the story. This famous great man, and two birds of his feather, In the Cerberus frigate came over together: But of all the bold chiefs that remeasure the trip, Not two have been known to return in one ship. Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport, They are very well pleased as long as unhurt; But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye, Ends the fray; and they go to their daddy and cry. Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many! You said all our paper was not worth a penny: ('Tis nothing but rags, quoth honest Will Tryon: Are rags to discourage the sons of the lion?) But Clinton thought thus: "It is folly to fight, When things may by easier methods come right: There is such an art as counterfeit-ation, And I'll do my utmost to honor our nation: "I'll show this damn'd country that I can enslave her, And that by the help of a skilful engraver; And then let the rebels take care of their bacon; We'll play 'em a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken." But the project succeeded not quite to your liking; So you paid off your artist, and gave up bill-striking: But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on: You had surely been hang'd had you tried it in Britain. At the taking of Charlestown you cut a great figure, The terms you propounded were terms full of rigor, Yet could not foresee poor Charley's disgrace, Nor how soon your own colors would go to the case. When the town had surrender'd, the more to disgrace ye (Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia), You broke all the terms yourself had extended, Because you supposed the rebellion was ended. Whoever the Tories mark'd out as a Whig, If gentle, or simple, or little, or big, No matter to you—to kill 'em and spite 'em, You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em. Then, thinking these rebels were snug and secure, You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour (The face of the latter no mask need be draw'd on, And to fish for the devil, my bait should be Rawdon). Returning to York with your ships and your plunder, And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under, The first thing that struck you as soon as you landed Was the fortress at West Point where Arnold commanded. Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver, We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river; The east and the south losing communication, The Yankees will die by the act of starvation." So off you sent AndrÉ (not guided by Pallas), Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows; Your loss, I conceive, than your gain was far greater, You lost a good fellow and got a damn'd traitor. Now Carleton comes over to give you relief; A knight, like yourself, and commander-in-chief; But the chief he will get, you may tell the dear honey, Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money. Now, with "Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel; Away to your master, and honestly tell, That his arms and his artists can nothing avail; His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale. Advise him, at length to be just and sincere, Of which not a symptom as yet doth appear; As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy, Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie. Freeman's Journal, May 22, 1782.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE BRITISH FROM CHARLESTON [December 14, 1782] However the King might froth and bluster, it was evident that he was beaten. He was forced to bow to the inevitable, and on December 5, 1782, in his speech at the opening of Parliament, he recommended that peace be made with the colonies in America, and that they be declared free and independent. ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH RECOMMENDING PEACE WITH THE AMERICAN STATES [December 5, 1782] Grown sick of war, and war's alarms, Good George has changed his note at last— Conquest and death have lost their charms; He and his nation stand aghast, To think what fearful lengths they've gone, And what a brink they stand upon. Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell, If you advised him to retreat Before our vanquished thousands fell, Prostrate, submissive at his feet: Awake once more his latent flame, And bid us yield you all you claim. The Macedonian wept and sighed Because no other world was found Where he might glut his rage and pride, And by its ruin be renowned; The world that Sawney wished to view George fairly had—and lost it too! Let jarring powers make war or peace, Monster!—no peace can greet your breast! Our murdered friends can never cease To hover round and break your rest! The Furies will your bosom tear, Remorse, distraction, and despair And hell, with all its fiends, be there! Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail Hence, freighted for your odious shore; May tempests o'er her strength prevail, Destruction round her roar! May Nature all her aids deny, The sun refuse his light, The needle from its object fly, No star appear by night: Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime, Directs the prow to some more Christian clime. Genius! that first our race designed, To other kings impart The finer feelings of the mind, The virtues of the heart; Whene'er the honors of a throne Fall to the bloody and the base, Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down, Like his, be their disgrace! Hibernia, seize each native right! Neptune, exclude him from the main; Like her that sunk with all her freight, The Royal George, take all his fleet, And never let them rise again; Confine him to his gloomy isle, Let Scotland rule her half, And Whitehead, thou to write his epitaph. Philip Freneau. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782 O Thou, that sendest out the man To rule by land and sea, Strong mother of a Lion-line, Be proud of those strong sons of thine Who wrench'd their rights from thee! What wonder if in noble heat Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou had'st taught, And in thy spirit with thee fought,— Who sprang from English blood! But thou rejoice with liberal joy, Lift up thy rocky face, And shatter, when the storms are black, In many a streaming torrent back, The seas that shock thy base! Whatever harmonies of law The growing world assume, Thy work is thine—the single note From that deep chord which Hampden smote Will vibrate to the doom. Alfred Tennyson.
ON DISBANDING THE ARMY [October 18, 1783] Ye brave Columbian bands! a long farewell! Well have ye fought for freedom—nobly done Your martial task—the meed immortal won— And Time's last records shall your triumphs tell. Once friendship made their cup of suff'rings sweet— The dregs how bitter, now those bands must part! Ah! never, never more on earth to meet; Distill'd from gall that inundates the heart, What tears from heroes' eyes are seen to start! Ye, too, farewell, who fell in fields of gore, And chang'd tempestuous toil for rest serene; Soon shall we join you on the peaceful shore (Though gulfs irremeable roll between), Thither by death-tides borne, as ye full soon have been. David Humphreys.
EVACUATION OF NEW YORK BY THE BRITISH [November 25, 1783] They come!—they come!—the heroes come With sounding fife, with thundering drum; Their ranks advance in bright array,— The heroes of America! He comes!—'tis mighty Washington (Words fail to tell all he has done), Our hero, guardian, father, friend! His fame can never, never end. He comes!—he comes!—our Clinton comes! Justice her ancient seat resumes: From shore to shore let shouts resound, For Justice comes, with Freedom crown'd. She comes!—the angelic virgin—Peace, And bids stern War his horrors cease; Oh! blooming virgin, with us stay, And bless, oh! bless America. Since Freedom has our efforts crown'd, Let flowing bumpers pass around: The toast is, "Freedom's favorite son, Health, peace, and joy to Washington!"
OCCASIONED BY GENERAL WASHINGTON'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA, ON HIS WAY TO HIS RESIDENCE IN VIRGINIA [December, 1783] The great unequal conflict past, The Briton banished from our shore, Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last, And hostile nations rage no more; From fields of death the weary swain Returning, seeks his native plain. In every vale she smiles serene, Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise, New charms she adds to every scene, Her brighter sun illumes our skies. Remotest realms admiring stand, And hail the Hero of our land: He comes!—the Genius of these lands— Fame's thousand tongues his worth confess, Who conquer'd with his suffering bands, And grew immortal by distress: Thus calms succeed the stormy blast, And valor is repaid at last. O Washington!—thrice glorious name, What due rewards can man decree— Empires are far below thy aim, And sceptres have no charms for thee; Virtue alone has your regard, And she must be your great reward. Encircled by extorted power, Monarchs must envy your Retreat Who cast, in some ill-fated hour, Their country's freedom at their feet; 'Twas yours to act a nobler part, For injur'd Freedom had your heart. For ravag'd realms and conquer'd seas Rome gave the great imperial prize, And, swell'd with pride, for feats like these, Transferr'd her heroes to the skies:— A brighter scene your deeds display, You gain those heights a different way. When Faction rear'd her bristly head, And join'd with tyrants to destroy, Where'er you march'd the monster fled, Timorous her arrows to employ: Hosts catch'd from you a bolder flame, And despots trembled at your name. Ere war's dread horrors ceas'd to reign, What leader could your place supply?— Chiefs crowded to the embattled plain, Prepar'd to conquer or to die— Heroes arose—but none, like you, Could save our lives and freedom too. In swelling verse let kings be read, And princes shine in polish'd prose; Without such aid your triumphs spread Where'er the convex ocean flows, To Indian worlds by seas embrac'd, And Tartar, tyrant of the waste. Throughout the east you gain applause, And soon the Old World, taught by you, Shall blush to own her barbarous laws, Shall learn instruction from the New. Monarchs shall hear the humble plea, Nor urge too far the proud decree. Despising pomp and vain parade, At home you stay, while France and Spain The secret, ardent wish convey'd, And hail'd you to their shores in vain: In Vernon's groves you shun the throne, Admir'd by kings, but seen by none. Your fame, thus spread to distant lands, May envy's fiercest blasts endure, Like Egypt's pyramids it stands, Built on a basis more secure; Time's latest age shall own in you The patriot and the statesman too. Now hurrying from the busy scene, Where thy Potowmack's waters flow, May'st thou enjoy thy rural reign, And every earthly blessing know; Thus he, who Rome's proud legions sway'd, Return'd, and sought his sylvan shade. Not less in wisdom than in war Freedom shall still employ your mind, Slavery must vanish, wide and far, Till not a trace is left behind; Your counsels not bestow'd in vain, Shall still protect this infant reign. So, when the bright, all-cheering sun From our contracted view retires, Though folly deems his race is run, On other worlds he lights his fires: Cold climes beneath his influence glow, And frozen rivers learn to flow. O say, thou great, exalted name! What Muse can boast of equal lays, Thy worth disdains all vulgar fame, Transcends the noblest poet's praise. Art soars, unequal to the flight, And genius sickens at the height. For States redeem'd—our western reign Restor'd by thee to milder sway, Thy conscious glory shall remain When this great globe is swept away And all is lost that pride admires, And all the pageant scene expires. Philip Freneau.
THE AMERICAN SOLDIER'S HYMN 'Tis God that girds our armor on, And all our just designs fulfils; Through Him our feet can swiftly run, And nimbly climb the steepest hills. Lessons of war from Him we take, And manly weapons learn to wield; Strong bows of steel with ease we break, Forced by our stronger arms to yield. 'Tis God that still supports our right, His just revenge our foes pursues; 'Tis He that with resistless might, Fierce nations to His power subdues. Our universal safeguard He! From Whom our lasting honors flow; He made us great, and set us free From our remorseless bloody foe. Therefore to celebrate His fame, Our grateful voice to Heaven we'll raise; And nations, strangers to His name, Shall thus be taught to sing His praise.
THANKSGIVING HYMN The Lord above, in tender love, Hath sav'd us from our foes; Through Washington the thing is done, The war is at a close. America has won the day, Through Washington, our chief; Come let's rejoice with heart and voice, And bid adieu to grief. Now we have peace, and may increase In number, wealth, and arts, If every one, like Washington, Will strive to do their parts. Then let's agree, since we are free, All needless things to shun; And lay aside all pomp and pride, Like our great Washington. Use industry, and frugal be, Like Washington the brave; So shall we see, 'twill easy be, Our country for to save, From present wars and future foes, And all that we may fear; While Washington, the great brave one, Shall as our chief appear. Industry and frugality Will all our taxes pay; In virtuous ways, we'll spend our days, And for our rulers pray. The Thirteen States, united sets, In Congress simply grand; The Lord himself preserve their health, That they may rule the land. Whilst every State, without its mate, Doth rule itself by laws, Will sovereign be, and always free; To grieve there is no cause. But all should try, both low and high, Our freedom to maintain; Pray God to bless our grand Congress, And cease from every sin. Then sure am I, true liberty Of every sort will thrive; With one accord we'll praise the Lord, All glory to Him give. To whom all praise is due always, For He is all in all; George Washington, that noble one, On His great name doth call. Our Congress too, before they do, Acknowledge Him supreme; Come let us all before Him fall, And glorify His name. LAND OF THE WILFUL GOSPEL From "Psalm of the West" Land of the Wilful Gospel, thou worst and thou best; Tall Adam of lands, new-made of the dust of the West; Thou wroughtest alone in the Garden of God, unblest Till He fashioned lithe Freedom to lie for thine Eve on thy breast— Till out of thy heart's dear neighborhood, out of thy side, He fashioned an intimate Sweet one and brought thee a Bride. Cry hail! nor bewail that the wound of her coming was wide. Lo, Freedom reached forth where the world as an apple hung red; Let us taste the whole radiant round of it, gayly she said: If we die, at the worst we shall lie as the first of the dead. Knowledge of Good and of Ill, O Land! she hath given thee; Perilous godhoods of choosing have rent thee and riven thee; Will's high adoring to Ill's low exploring hath driven thee— Freedom, thy Wife, hath uplifted thy life and clean shriven thee! Her shalt thou clasp for a balm to the scars of thy breast, Her shalt thou kiss for a calm to thy wars of unrest, Her shalt extol in the psalm of the soul of the West. For Weakness, in freedom, grows stronger than Strength with a chain; And Error, in freedom, will come to lamenting his stain, Till freely repenting he whiten his spirit again; And Friendship, in freedom, will blot out the bounding of race; And straight Law, in freedom, will curve to the rounding of grace; And Fashion, in freedom, will die of the lie in her face. Sidney Lanier.
|
|
