When we address your throne;
O King, this wealthy country
And subjects are your own,
And you, their rightful sovereign
They truly must obey,
You have a right to govern
This North America.
O King, you've heard the sequel
Of what we now subscribe:
Is it not just and equal
To tax this wealthy tribe?
The question being askèd,
His majesty did say,
My subjects shall be taxèd
In North America.
Invested with a warrant,
My publicans shall go,
The tenth of all their current
They surely shall bestow;
If they indulge rebellion,
Or from my precepts stray,
I'll send my war battalion
To North America.
I'll rally all my forces
By water and by land,
My light dragoons and horses
Shall go at my command;
I'll burn both town and city,
With smoke becloud the day,
I'll show no human pity
For North America.
Go on, my hearty soldiers,
You need not fear of ill--
There's Hutchinson and Rogers,
Their functions will fulfill--
They tell such ample stories,
Believe them sure we may,
One half of them are tories
In North America.
My gallant ships are ready
To waft you o'er the flood,
And in my cause be steady,
Which is supremely good.
Go ravage, steal, and plunder,
And you shall have the prey;
They quickly will knock under
In North America.
The laws I have enacted
I never will revoke,
Although they are neglected,
My fury to provoke.
I will forbear to flatter,
I'll rule the mighty sway,
I'll take away the charter
From North America.
O George! you are distracted,
You'll by experience find
The laws you have enacted
Are of the blackest kind.
I'll make a short digression,
And tell you by the way,
We fear not your oppression
In North America.
Our fathers were distressèd
While in their native land;
By tyrants were oppressèd
As we do understand;
For freedom and religion
They were resolved to stray,
And trace the desert regions
Of North America.
Heaven was their sole protector
While on the roaring tide,
Kind fortune their director,
And providence their guide.
If I am not mistaken,
About the first of May,
This voyage was undertaken
For North America.
If rightly I remember,
This country to explore,
They landed in November
On Plymouth's desert shore.
The savages were nettled,
With fear they fled away,
So peaceably they settled
In North America.
We are their bold descendants,
For liberty we'll fight,
The claim to independence
We challenge as our right;
'T is what kind Heaven gave us,
Who can take it away?
O Heaven, sure it will save us
In North America.
We never will knock under,
O George! we do not fear
The rattling of your thunder,
Nor lightning of your spear;
Though rebels you declare us,
We're strangers to dismay;
Therefore you cannot scare us
In North America.
To what you have commanded
We never will consent,
Although your troops are landed
Upon our continent;
We'll take our swords and muskets,
And march in dread array,
And drive the British red-coats
From North America.
We have a bold commander,
Who fears not sword or gun,
The second Alexander,
His name is Washington.
His men are all collected,
And ready for the fray,
To fight they are directed
For North America.
We've Greene, and Gates, and Putnam,
To manage in the field,
A gallant train of footmen,
Who'd rather die than yield;
A stately troop of horsemen
Trained in a martial way,
For to augment our forces
In North America.
Proud George, you are engagèd
All in a dirty cause,
A cruel war have wagèd
Repugnant to all laws.
Go tell the savage nations
You're crueler than they,
To fight your own relations
In North America.
Ten millions you've expended,
And twice ten millions more;
Our riches you intended
Should pay the mighty score.
Who now will stand your sponsor,
Your charges to defray?
For sure you cannot conquer
This North America.
I'll tell you, George, in metre,
If you'll attend awhile;
We've forced your bold Sir Peter
From Sullivan's fair isle.
At Monmouth, too, we gainèd
The honors of the day--
The victory we obtainèd
For North America.
Surely we were your betters
Hard by the Brandywine;
We laid him fast in fetters
Whose name was John Burgoyne;
We made your Howe to tremble
With terror and dismay;
True heroes we resemble,
In North America.
Confusion to the tories,
That black infernal name
In which Great Britain glories,
Forever to her shame;
We'll send each foul revolter
To smutty Africa,
Or noose him in a halter
In North America.
A health to our brave footmen,
Who handle sword and gun,
To Greene, and Gates, and Putnam,
And conquering Washington;
Their names be wrote in letters
Which never will decay,
While sun and moon do glitter
On North America.
Success unto our allies
In Holland, France, and Spain,
Who man their ships and galleys,
Our freedom to maintain;
May they subdue the rangers
Of proud Britannia,
And drive them from their anchors
In North America.
Success unto the Congress
Of these United States,
Who glory in the conquests
Of Washington and Gates;
To all, both land and seamen,
Who glory in the day
When we shall all be freemen
In North America.
Success to legislation,
That rules with gentle hand,
To trade and navigation
By water and by land.
May all with one opinion
Our wholesome laws obey,
Throughout this vast dominion
Of North America.
[Illustration]
THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS.
BY FRANCIS HOPKINSON.
(From "The Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings," 1792.)
[This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. Certain machines in
the form of kegs, charged with gunpowder, were sent down the river to
annoy the British shipping then at Philadelphia. The danger of these
machines being discovered, the British manned the wharfs and shipping,
and discharged their small-arms and cannons at every thing they saw
floating in the river during the ebb tide.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.]
Gallants attend and hear a friend
Trill forth harmonious ditty,
Strange things I'll tell which late befell
In Philadelphia city.
'T was early day, as poets say,
Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood on a log of wood,
And saw a thing surprising.
As in amaze he stood to gaze,
The truth can't be denied, sir,
He spied a score of kegs or more
Come floating down the tide, sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,
This strange appearance viewing,
First damned his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said: "Some mischief's brewing.
"These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold,
Packed up like pickled herring;
And they're come down to attack the town,
In this new way of ferrying."
The soldier flew, the sailor too,
And scared almost to death, sir,
Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,
And ran till out of breath, sir.
Now up and down throughout the town,
Most frantic scenes were acted;
And some ran here, and others there,
Like men almost distracted.
Some fire cried, which some denied,
But said the earth had quakèd;
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran through the streets half nakèd.
Sir William he, snug as a flea,
Lay all this time a snoring,
Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm,
* * * * *
Now in a fright, he starts upright,
Awaked by such a clatter;
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries:
For God's sake, what's the matter?
At his bedside he then espied,
Sir Erskine at command, sir,
Upon one foot he had one boot,
And th' other in his hand, sir.
"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries,
"The rebels--more's the pity,
Without a boat are afloat,
And ranged before the city.
"The motley crew, in vessels new,
With Satan for their guide, sir,
Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs,
Come driving down the tide, sir.
"Therefore prepare for bloody war,
These kegs must all be routed
Or surely we despised shall be,
And British courage doubted."
The royal band now ready stand
All ranged in dread array, sir,
With stomach stout to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore,
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel dales, the rebel vales
With rebel trees surrounded,
The distant woods, the hills and floods,
With rebel echoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro,
Attacked from every quarter;
Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay,
'Mongst folks above the water.
The kegs, 't is said, though strongly made,
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,
Could not oppose their powerful foes,
The conquering British troops, sir.
From morn to night these men of might
Displayed amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men with each a pen,
Or more upon my word, sir,
It is most true would be too few,
Their valor to record, sir.
Such feats did they perform that day,
Against these wicked kegs, sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CARMEN BELLICOSUM.
BY GUY HUMPHREY MCMASTER.
In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
Yielding not,
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon shot;
When the files
Of the isles
From the smoky night-encampment bore the banner of the rampant
Unicorn,
And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,
Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal
Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;
As the roar
On the shore,
Swept the strong battle breakers o'er the green sodded acres
Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red Saint George's
Cannoneers;
And the "villainous saltpetre"
Rung a fierce, discordant metre
Round their ears;
As the swift
Storm drift,
With hot, sweeping anger, came the horse guard's clangor
On our flanks.
Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks!
Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white, infernal
Powder cloud;
And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing
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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR.
[Descriptive of the daring bravery of Captain John Paul Jones, in his
cruise in the Irish Channel in 1778.]
(From Admiral Luce's "Naval Songs.")
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,--
With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale,
On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,
As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.
There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop,
And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,
But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.
The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,
And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.
The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set
Her spanker and her standing jib--the courses being fast;
"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 a-breast the old Saltee's,
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four
We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.
Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past--
"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!"
Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,
And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.
"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"
And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet,
And a-midst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.
[Illustration:
PAUL JONES' VICTORY]
(Battle between the _Bon Homme Richard_ and the _Serapis_, September
23, 1779.)
An American Frigate:--a frigate of fame,
With guns mounting forty, _The Richard_ by name,
Sailed to cruise in the channels of old England,
With a valiant commander, Paul Jones was his name.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Our country forever, Hurrah!
We had not cruised long, before he espies
A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;
Well manned with bold seamen, well laid in with stores,
In consort to drive us from old England's shores.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Our country forever, Hurrah!
About twelve at noon, Pearson came alongside,
With a loud speaking trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried:
"Return me an answer--I hailed you before,
Or if you do not, a broadside I'll pour." Hurrah!
Paul Jones then said to his men, every one,
"Let every true seaman stand firm to his gun!
We'll receive a broadside from this bold Englishman,
And like true Yankee sailors, return it again." Hurrah!
The contest was bloody, both decks ran with gore,
And the sea seemed to blaze, while the cannon did roar.
"Fight on, my brave boys," then Paul Jones he cried,
"And soon we will humble this bold Englishman's pride." Hurrah!
"Stand firm to your quarters--your duty don't shun,
The first one that shrinks, through the body I'll run,
Though their force is superior, yet they shall know,
What true, brave American seamen can do." Hurrah!
The battle rolled on, till bold Pearson cried:
"Have you yet struck your colors? then come alongside!"
But so far from thinking that the battle was won,
Brave Paul Jones replied: "I've not yet begun!" Hurrah!
We fought them eight glasses, eight glasses so hot,
Till seventy bold seamen lay dead on the spot.
And ninety brave seamen lay stretched in their gore,
While the pieces of cannon most fiercely did roar.
Our gunner, in great fright to Captain Jones came,
"We gain water quite fast and our side's in a flame."
Then Paul Jones said in the height of his pride:
"If we cannot do better, boys, sink alongside!"
The _Alliance_ bore down, and the _Richard_ did rake,
Which caused the bold hearts of our seamen to ache:
Our shots flew so hot that they could not stand us long,
And the undaunted Union-of-Britain came down.
To us they did strike and their colors hauled down;
The fame of Paul Jones to the world shall be known,
His name shall rank with the gallant and brave,
Who fought like a hero--our freedom to save.
Now all valiant seamen where'er you may be,
Who hear of this combat that's fought on the sea,
May you all do like them, when called to do the same,
And your names be enrolled on the pages of fame.
Your country will boast of her sons that are brave,
And to you she will look from all dangers to save,
She'll call you dear sons, in her annals you'll shine,
And the brows of the brave shall green laurels entwine.
So now, my brave boys, have we taken a prize--
A large 44, and a 20 likewise!
Then God bless the mother whose doom is to weep
The loss of her sons in the ocean so deep.
1813.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE ROYAL ADVENTURER.
BY PHILIP FRENEAU.
[In the year 1781, Prince William Henry (afterward William IV.), third
son of George III., came to New York as a midshipman, accompanied
by Admiral Digby. The tory authorities of the city overwhelmed the
boy--he was just sixteen years old--with adulation, recording it as
their conviction that his gracious presence in the country would shame
the patriots out of their rebellion and win them to submission and
loyalty.--EDITOR.]
Prince William, of the Brunswick race,
To witness George's sad disgrace
The royal lad came over,
Rebels to kill, by right divine--
Derived from that industrious line,
The beggars of Hanover.
So many chiefs got broken pates
In vanquishing the rebel states,
So many nobles fell,
That George the Third in passion cried:
"Our royal blood must now be tried;
'Tis that must break the spell;
"To you [the fat pot-valiant swain
To Digby said], dear friend of mine,
To you I trust my boy;
The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,
Rebellion die when he appears,
My tories leap with joy."
So said, so done--the lad was sent,
But never reached the continent,
An island held him fast--
Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,
The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,
"Prince William's come at last!"
"Prince William's come!"--the Briton cried--
"Our labors now will be repaid--
Dominion be restored--
Our monarch is in William seen,
He is the image of our queen,
Let William be adored!"
The tories came with long address,
With poems groaned the royal press,
And all in William's praise--
The youth, astonished, looked about
To find their vast dominions out,
Then answered in amaze:
"Where all your vast domain can be,
Friends, for my soul I cannot see;
'Tis but an empty name;
Three wasted islands and a town
In rubbish buried--half burnt down,
Is all that we can claim;
"I am of royal birth, 'tis true,
But what, my sons, can princes do,
No armies to command?
Cornwallis conquered and distrest--
Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest--
I curse--and quit the land."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
EUTAW SPRINGS.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS, UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN
SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781, AT
EUTAW SPRINGS.
BY PHILIP FRENEAU.
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er--
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
If in this wreck of ruin they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite thy gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!
Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!
Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear--
They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear,--but left the shield.
Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die--
But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying still their arrows threw;
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.
Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from Nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.
[Illustration]
AN ANCIENT PROPHECY.
BY PHILIP FRENEAU.
(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.)
When a certain great King, whose initial is G.,
Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;
When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,
You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.
But when a Petition he treads under feet,
And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,
When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,
Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to _cage_;
When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;
You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.
But when B. and C. with their armies are taken
This King will do well if he saves his own bacon:
In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two
A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;
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.--
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE DANCE.
(Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.)
Cornwallis led a country dance,
The like was never seen, sir,
Much retrograde and much advance,
And all with General Greene, sir.
They rambled up and rambled down,
Joined hands, then off they run, sir,
Our General Greene to Charlestown,
The earl to Wilmington, sir.
Greene in the South then danced a set,
And got a mighty name, sir,
Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,
But suffered in his fame, sir.
Then down he figured to the shore,
Most like a lordly dancer,
And on his courtly honor swore
He would no more advance, sir.
Quoth he, my guards are weary grown
With footing country dances,
They never at St. James's shone,
At capers, kicks or prances.
Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,
While sauntering on parade, sir,
Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,
Or at a masquerade, sir.
Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
For stumps and briars meet, sir?
Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
Or hardy veteran feet, sir?
Now housed in York, he challenged all,
At minuet or all 'amande,
And lessons for a courtly ball
His guards by day and night conned.
This challenge known, full soon there came,
A set who had the bon ton,
De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
Fut brillant pour un long tems.
And Washington, Columbia's son,
Whom easy nature taught, sir,
That grace which can't by pains be won,
Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.
Now hand in hand they circle round
This ever-dancing peer, sir;
Their gentle movements soon confound
The earl as they draw near, sir.
His music soon forgets to play--
His feet can move no more,[1] 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?
1781.
[1] In all the versions of this poem examined by the editor this
line reads "His feet can no more move, sir"; but the reading is
so clearly wrong that it seems proper to amend it so that the
obviously intended rhyme between "more, sir" and "shore, sir"
shall appear. There is the greater justification for the taking of
this liberty of correction because the poem originally appeared in
carelessly edited contemporary prints.--EDITOR.
[Illustration]
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
[A very interesting bit of literary history attaches to this poem. The
piece appeared in Mr. Bryant's first collected volume of poems about
1831. Mr. Bryant sent the volume, with a letter, to Washington Irving,
then in London, with whom he had no personal acquaintance, and invoked
his good offices in inducing Murray to bring out an English edition of
the work. The time being peculiarly unpropitious, Murray declined to
undertake the venture, but Irving found another publisher, and himself
introduced the volume in the most favorable manner, with a dedicatory
letter of his own. While passing the book through the press the
publisher observed in this poem the lines:
"The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told,"
and assured Irving that he could not offer a work containing such
a statement to a British public. It was impossible to consult the
author, three thousand miles away, and Irving ventured to change the
objectionable passage so that it should read:
"The foeman trembles in his camp
When Marion's name is told."
There is no reason to believe that Mr. Bryant ever resented the liberty
or regarded it otherwise than as an act of friendly intervention;
but some years later William Leggett, who had long been Mr. Bryant's
editorial associate in the office of the _Evening Post_, but had
severed his connection with that paper, made a virulent assault upon
Irving in the _Plaindealer_ on account of the change he had made, even
going so far as to intimate that both that and his dealings with one
of his own works were dictated by mean sycophancy and cowardice on
Irving's part.--EDITOR.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.