ARRANGED FROM A GERMAN AIR FOR THE PIANO FORTE.
Presented to Graham’s Magazine, by J. G. Osbourn.
[Illustration: musical score]
The moon’s brightly beaming, love,
Still waters gleaming;
Wake from thy dreaming, love,
List to my lay.
Long, long, at twilight hour,
From yon lone distant bow’r,
Sadly I watch thy tow’r,
Fading away.
Long, long, at twilight hour,
From yon lone distant bow’r,
Sadly, I watch thy tow’r,
Fading away.
Low winds are sighing, love,
Day flowers dying,
Sweet moments flying, love,
Swiftly away.
Come e’er the morning dew,
Gemming the heather blue,
Green turf and mountain yew,
Our fond flight betray.
Young years are fleeting, love,
Warm bosoms heating,
Watch them retreating, love,
Sadly away.
Haste, o’er the summer tide,
Sweetly our bark will glide,
Thou my fond trust and guide,
On the blue way.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Thomas Noon
Talfourd, author of “Ion,” etc. In one volume. Philadelphia,
Carey & Hart, 1842._
It is doubted by many intelligent critics whether the present age has in
very deed given birth to any work of genius which will withstand the
restless beatings of the waves of time and carry down to remotest
generations the embodied evidence of the power and greatness of the
Nineteenth Century. There is certainly room for an honest difference of
opinion on this point, for it cannot be denied that on looking around
the eye meets not at every corner nor does the ear hear, acting or
uttering their Life Poem from every house-top, Homers, Shakspeares,
Luthers, or Miltons. But that our cotemporaries are eminently skilled in
examining into and discovering the worth of what has been done aforetime
cannot be denied. Criticism has been made an art; and there is an
evident tendency to exalt the man, with his telescope, to the star he
looks at. We do not at present intend to find fault with this
disposition, nor should we have mentioned it, but for the purpose of
saying that it has produced some not distasteful fruits, among the best
of which we rank these critical essays of Mr. Sergeant Talfourd. We are
glad they have been thus collected together, for the periodicals in
which they first appeared reach but few of those who would fain read
them. Macauley and Carlyle write mainly for one or two works, so that
with comparatively little difficulty the general reader may find all
their productions; but Mr. Talfourd writes for quarterlies, monthlies
and weeklies, and a collective re-publication of his contributions was
therefore greatly to be desired. He makes admirable speeches, too, on
copyright, and in defence of the professors of high Art when they are
assailed by the spirit of the world, or when, in their vagaries, not
always the most orderly, they run athwart some of the good and unbending
rules established for the general welfare. These, we are sorry to say,
we do not find in the present volume. Still, we are too thankful for
what we have, to complain of the absence of the defence of Shelley and
the argument on the rights of authors.
The peculiar characteristics of Mr. Talfourd’s criticism are its
catholic liberality, its accurate and clear sighted discrimination, its
insight, which is really of the _scientific_ kind, and its classical
purity, both in thought and style. He never writes hastily or without
elaboration, and yet his criticism is not cold and unsympathizing. He
enters deeply into the spirit of the work he examines, is peculiarly
sensitive to its beauties and excellencies, and speaks of them
eloquently and with boldness. His language is strong, but polished, and
there is always in his thought a cheerful confidence and a keen-eyed
discernment, which instruct and strengthen. The essay on Wordsworth is
among the best in the volume, written in the spirit of the poetry it
dissects, and evincing skill in developing beauty, and a sharp sense
which will detect it wherever it exists. The review of Wallace’s
Prospects of Mankind, and the paper on Modern Improvements, are valuable
and instructive. The essays on the profession of the law, and on pulpit
oratory, are also excellent. Indeed, the contents of this volume are so
uniformly good and so alike in all their prominent characteristics, that
it would be difficult, as it is certainly unnecessary, to point out any
as pre-eminently deserving of applause.
* * * * *
_Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Walter Scott.[6]
Collected by Himself. Now for the first time Published in
America. Three volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
The Wizard of the North, as it was the custom a few years ago to call
Walter Scott, may be regarded in four aspects—as a novelist, a poet, a
critic, and a historian. In the first character he was unequaled, in the
second and third among the first of his age and country, and in the
last, alone, utterly contemptible; and that not for lack of ability or
painstaking, certainly, but on account of his perfect recklessness of
all principle, truth or decency that did not tend to fill his pockets
with money or advance the interests of his party. In the volumes before
us we have his criticisms and miscellaneous essays, and though we had
aforetime been accustomed to regard them as possessing comparatively
slight merit, a reperusal of the greater number has left on our mind an
impression in the highest degree favorable to them, as compared with the
best productions of their kind. Macauley is our favorite reviewer;
Wilson, Sidney Smith, Talfourd and Scott we rank next. With all his
apparent rapidity and ease, Macauley is the most laborious of the
fraternity. He spends his month in reading—_cramming_ is the technical
phrase—everything relating to his subject; sits for a week or two at
his desk, writing, recurring to documents, and rewriting, until every
fact or idea he deems worthy of retention is embodied in his article,
which is then carefully retouched and copied for the “Edinburgh.”
Talfourd meditates his subject, too, and polishes with no less care or
skill. But Scott glanced upon the surface of things, skimmed over the
abstracts and summaries relating to his theme, and wrote off, in his
smooth, vivacious, pleasant way, his paper—read the MS—marked in a few
commas and colons—and sent it to the printer.
With too little time and space for an elaborate review of these volumes,
yet anxious, as in all our notices of books, to give the reader a
definite idea of their character, we place in the margin a list of their
contents, and shall notice more particularly but a small number of the
forty-eight articles of which they are composed. The essays on
Chatterton and Burns, in the first volume, are sympathizing, liberal and
judicious, though less distinguished for nicety of discrimination than
some others on the same subjects. In the second volume is his review of
his own “Tales of My Landlord,” from the _Quarterly_, for January, 1817,
educed by a series of essays from the pen of Doctor McCrie, in which the
views given of the Scottish covenanters in the Waverly novels were
bitterly impugned. The authorship of these novels, it will be
remembered, was then a secret. The modesty of Scott’s estimate of
himself may be inferred from the following passage, from page 144:
“The volume which this author has studied is the great book of
nature. He has gone abroad into the world in quest of what the
world will certainly and abundantly supply, but what a man of
great discrimination alone will find, and a man of the very
highest genius will alone depict after he has discovered it. The
characters of Shakspeare are not more exclusively human, not
more perfectly men and women as they live and move, than those
of this mysterious author.”
Yet, this _is_ modest, compared with numerous other puffs of himself
from his own pen, written in his long and successful career, and
justified on the ground that they were “fair business transactions.”
Washington Irving has done the same thing, in writing laudatory notices
of his own works for the reviews, and, like Scott, received pay for
whitewashing himself. We do not imagine that in either case there was
any great injustice in the self-praise, but certainly Mr. Murray should
not have been solicited to pay the “guinea a page.” The articles in the
third volume on Kemble, Kelly’s Reminiscences, and Davy’s “Salmonia,”
are all excellent, and equally so. We have understood, too, that the
Letters from Malachi Malagrowther, Esquire, on the currency, are
readable, but we never look into articles on such subjects.
-----
[6] Vol. I.—Articles on Ellis’s Specimens of the Early English Poets;
Ellis’s and Ritson’s Specimens of the Early English Metrical Romances;
Godwin’s Life of Chaucer; Todd’s Edition of Spencer; Herbert’s Poems;
Evans’s Old Ballads; Moliere; Chatterton; Reliques of Burns; Campbell’s
Gertrude of Wyoming; The Battles of Tallavera (a poem); Southey’s Curse
of Kehama; The Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage; Amadis of
Gaul; Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid; Southey’s Life of John Bunyan;
Godwin’s “Fleetwood;” Cumberland’s John of Lancaster; Maturin’s “Fatal
Revenge;” Maturin’s “Women, or Pour et Contre;” Miss Austin’s Novels;
and Remarks on Frankenstein.
Vol. II.—Novels of Ernest Theodore Hoffman; The Omen; Hajji Baba in
England; Tales of My Landlord; Thornton’s Sporting Tour; Two Cookery
Books; Jones’s Translation of Froissart; Miseries of Human Life; Carr’s
Caledonian Sketches; Lady Suffolk’s Correspondence; Kirkton’s Church
History; Life and Works of John Home; The Culloden Papers; and Pepys’s
Memoirs.
Vol. III.—Life of Kemble; Kelly’s Reminiscences; Davy’s Salmonia;
Ancient History of Scotland; On Planting Waste Lands—Monteith’s
Forresters’ Guide; On Landscape Gardening—Sir H. Steuart’s Planters’
Guide; Tyler’s History of Scotland; Pitcairn’s Criminal Trials; and The
Letters of Malachi Malagrowther, Esquire, on the Currency.
* * * * *
_The History of the Reformation of the Church of England, by
Gilbert Burnet, D. D., late Lord Bishop of Salisbury, with the
Collection of Records and a copious Index, revised and
corrected, with additional Notes and a Preface, by the Rev. E.
Nares, D. D., late Professor of Modern History in the University
of Oxford. Illustrated with a Frontispiece and twenty-three
engraved Portraits. Four volumes, 8vo. New York: D. Appleton &
Co._
Bishop Burnet’s celebrated History of the Reformation in England is one
of those standard works which a gentleman is ashamed not to have read.
Respecting the important period to which it relates, there are few
productions so frequently consulted by more modern writers, and its
intrinsic excellence must ever make it desirable, not only to scholars
and persons familiar with the advancement of civil and ecclesiastical
affairs, but to young students in history and general readers. Of the
ability of Doctor Nares, we confess we have not a very high
opinion—having, it may be, imbibed some prejudices against him from
Macauley—but, as the English critics all concur, so far as we have
seen, in the opinion that his edition of this work is the best extant,
we are bound to believe that he has, in one instance, done his duty
well. If the work has any defects they are such as we are unable to
detect.
Burnet’s History of the Reformation, though frequently republished in
England, has never before been printed in America, and the high price of
the English impressions here kept it from the libraries of many who will
now obtain it. The copy before us is creditable to the publishers, in
all but the portraits, which, with deference to the taste of Messrs.
Appleton, we think add very little to its value or beauty.
* * * * *
_Cottage Residences; or a Series of Designs for Rural Cottages
and Cottage Villas and their Gardens and Grounds, adapted to
North America. By A. J. Downing. Illustrated by numerous
Engravings. One volume, 8vo. New York: Wiley & Putnam._
Mr. Downing’s previous publication, on Landscape Gardening, has made or
should have made his name familiar to all for whom rural life has
charms. This new book, on a cognate subject, the application of moderate
means to country residences, is, like that, eminently calculated to
advance among us elegance, comfort, in a word, _civilization_; and we
hope, therefore, that it will be universally studied. Mr. Downing’s
object is to inspire the minds of his readers with a vivid perception of
the beautiful in every thing that relates to our houses and grounds—to
awaken a quicker sense of the grace or picturesqueness of fine forms
that may be produced in these by rural architecture and ornamental
gardening—a sense which will not only refine and elevate the mind, but
pour into it new and infinite resources of delight. In his preface he
remarks that he wishes to imbue all persons with a love of beautiful
forms and a desire to assemble them around their daily walks of life; to
appreciate how superior is the charm of that home where we discover the
tasteful cottage or villa, and the well designed and neatly kept garden
or grounds, full of beauty and harmony—not the less beautiful and
harmonious because simple and limited—and to become aware that these
superior forms, and the higher and more refined enjoyment derived from
them, may be had at the same cost and the same labor as a clumsy
dwelling, and its uncouth and ill-designed accessories. “More than all,”
he continues, “I desire to see these sentiments cherished for their pure
and moral tendency. ‘All beauty is an outward expression of inward
good,’ and so closely are the Beautiful and True allied, that we shall
find, if we become sincere lovers of the grace, the harmony, and the
loveliness, with which rural homes and rural life are capable of being
invested, that we are silently opening our hearts to an influence which
is higher and deeper than the mere _symbol_; and that if we have
worshiped in the true spirit, we shall have caught a nearer glimpse of
the Great Master whose words, in all his material universe, are written
in lines of Beauty.”
The whole volume, throughout, bears witness of the cultivated intellect
from which it sprung, and of the author’s fine taste and enthusiastic
appreciation of the attractions of a country life. It is printed and
embellished as such a work should be. We heartily commend it to the
attention of country gentlemen.
* * * * *
_Johnsoniana; or a Supplement to Boswell; being Anecdotes and
Sayings of Doctor Johnson, Collected from Mrs. Piozzi, George
Steevens, W. Pepys, Doctor Beattie, John Northcote, John Hoole,
Sir John Hawkins, Sir Josh. Reynolds, Cowper, Dugald Stewart,
Edmund Malone, Sir James Mackintosh, Doctor Moor, Doctor Parr,
Bishop Horne, etc. Edited by John Wilson Croker. One vol. 12mo.,
pp. 530. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1842._
This is a very entertaining volume, and an indispensable companion to
Boswell—embodying, as it does, every anecdote of the literary dictator
which that model biographer omitted in his life of him, gathered from
nearly a hundred different publications. It might, however, have been
made better, had its publication been deferred until the appearance of
Madame D’Arblay’s Memoirs. It is embellished with finely engraved
portraits of Johnson, Boswell, Beauclerk, Mrs. Piozzi and Mr. Thrale.
* * * * *
_The History of Fiction: Being a Critical Account of the most
Celebrated Prose Works of Fiction, from the Earliest Greek
Romances to the Novels of the Present Day. By John Dunlap. Two
volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
During the recent summer there has been republished in this country no
book for the library more interesting or valuable than this History of
Fiction. It was first printed at Edinburgh in 1814, and two years after
a second and much improved edition appeared in the same city, of which
this by Messrs. Carey & Hart is a reproduction. The History of Fiction
is intimately connected with the history of the advancement of society,
and is therefore interesting to the philosopher as well as the man of
letters. Mr. Dunlap traces separately the progress of the romances of
chivalry, the Italian tales, the spiritual romance, the pastoral
stories, the French novels, the modern English novels and romances,
etc., and gives analysis—so far as our very limited acquaintance with
them enables us to judge, correct and sufficiently full to convey a just
idea of their character and merit—of the early and rare productions
which form the landmarks of his subject. Our own impressions do not on
all points correspond with those of Mr. Dunlap; and we think he erred in
confining his History to _prose_ fictions only, as the creations of the
poets, though earlier and in all ways superior, resemble them too nearly
in their chief characteristics to be regarded separately.
* * * * *
_Random Shots and Southern Breezes: Containing Critical Remarks
on the Southern States and Southern Institutions, with
semi-serious Observations on Men and Manners. By Louis
Fitzgerald Tasistro, Author of “The Revolution of July,” etc.
Two vols. 12mo. New York, Harper & Brothers._
This is a lively and entertaining journal of a professional tour through
the southern and western parts of the Union, in the autumn and winter of
1840. Blended with his narrative and comments on society, Mr. Tasistro
has given opinions and critical essays on a great variety of subjects
connected with literature and art, which with men of taste will be
regarded as the most attractive parts of the work.
* * * * *
_A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, for the Voice.
Philadelphia, J. Dobson._
The lovers of Scottish music will be gratified to learn that this
celebrated work—originally published in five volumes at Edinburgh by G.
Thompson—is being republished in this country. It has introductory and
concluding symphonies and accompaniments to each air, for the
piano-forte, violin, flute, etc. composed by Pleyel, Haydn, Weber,
Beethoven and others, with the most admired ancient and modern Scottish
and English songs, inclusive of the one hundred or more written for it
by Burns. We know of no musical work that will be more prized by the
professed artist or the amateur.
* * * * *
_George Saint George Julian, the Prince. By Henry Cockton. With
Illustrations. One volume, octavo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
A novel of great popularity and little merit. The admirers of “Valentine
Vox,” by the same author, will doubtless be pleased with it.
* * * * *
_Gems from the American Female Poets: With Brief Biographical
Notices. By Rufus W. Griswold. Second Edition. One volume, 12mo.
pp. 192. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._
In this elegant little volume the editor has given what he deems the
best compositions of some forty American ladies who have written in
metre. The second edition is enlarged and otherwise improved. We
understand the volume has been introduced into many of the young ladies’
seminaries as a reading book, for which purpose it seems to be well
adapted.
* * * * *
_The Gift, a Christmas and New Year’s Present, for MDCCCXLIII.
One volume octavo. With Engravings from Malbone, Huntington,
Inman, Chapman, Sully, etc., by Cheney, Dodson, Pease, etc.
Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
The new volume of the Gift surpasses in the style of its typography and
the merit of its pictorial embellishments any annual ever published in
this country; and its literary contents will not suffer by comparison
with those of any work, American or foreign, of the same description. To
prove the correctness of this opinion we have only to remark that all
the writers—save one or two of an indifferent stamp of whom we never
heard before—are contributors to this magazine. The picture from
Huntington—miscalled “Mercy’s _Dream_"—is one of the most exquisite
productions in its way with which we are acquainted; “The News-Boy,”
from Inman, represents the class which it is designed to portray to the
life; and the head from Malbone shows that the high reputation of that
artist was not undeserved. The picture from Chapman we cannot praise—a
head of eight on a body of eighteen is in bad taste, to say the least of
it. The best prose papers in the volume are those by Mrs. “Mary
Clavers,” Mr. Smith, Mr. Herbert and Mr. Simms; and the best poem is the
one commencing on the first page, by Mrs. Seba Smith.
* * * * *
_The Hand Book of Needlework: With Numerous Engravings. By Miss
Lambert. One vol. 8vo. New York, Wiley & Putnam._
One of the most beautiful books of the season. It embraces ample
instructions for drawing patterns, framing and properly finishing
needlework, and a curious history of its progress from the days of Moses
to the accession of Queen Victoria! The American edition is superior in
its execution to that published in London. It will doubtless be among
the most popular gift works of the approaching holiday season.
* * * * *
_Hope Leslie: or Early Times in the Massachusetts. By the Author
of “The Linwoods,” “The Poor Rich Man,” “Redwood,” “Live and Let
Live,” “Letters from Abroad,” etc. Two vols. New York, Harper &
Brothers._
We are pleased to see a new edition of this popular novel—the first,
and in some respects the best, of Miss Sedgwick’s productions.
* * * * *
_The Rose of Sharon: a Religious Souvenir; for 1843. Boston,
Abel Tompkins._
A very elegant volume, in which the sentiments of the Universalist
denomination are inculcated.
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
THE MINSTRELSY OF THE REVOLUTION.
_Permettez que je faisse les chansons d’un peuple, et il fera les lois
qui le veut_, remarked, in substance, some shrewd Frenchman; and that he
rated not too high the power of song is shown by numerous instances in
both ancient and modern history. It has been lamented that we have in
America no martial lyrics comparable to those of the older nations.
Holmes exclaims in one of his admirable poems—
When Gallia’s flag its triple fold displays,
Her marshaled legions peal the Marseillaise;
When round the German close the war-clouds dim,
Far through their shadows floats his battle hymn;
When, crowned with joy the camps of England ring,
A thousand voices shout “God save the King!”
When Victory follows with our eagle’s glance,
Our nation’s anthem is a _country dance_.[7]
-----
[7] The popular air of “Yankee Doodle,” like the dagger of Hudibras,
serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose.
* * * * *
But the martial song belongs to more warlike countries. France, Germany
and England are vast fortified districts, echoing forever the din of
conflict or the notes of military preparation; while America is the
resting-place of Peace, whence her influence is to irradiate the world.
Or, if a different destiny awaits her, there is little danger but that—
When the roused nation bids her armies form,
And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,
When from our ports the bannered frigate rides,
Her black bows scowling to the crested tides,
Some proud muse
Will rend the silence of our tented plains
And bid the nations tremble at her strains.
The puritan settlers of New England, while carrying on war against the
Indian tribes, deemed it right to spend the hours their enemies devoted
to profane dances and incantations, in singing verses, half military and
half religious; and their actions in the field were celebrated in
ballads which lacked none of the spirit and fidelity of the songs of the
old bards and scalds, however deficient they may have been in metrical
array and sentiment. “Lovewell’s Fight,” “The Gallant Church,” “Smith’s
Affair at Sidelong Hill,” and “The Godless French Soldier,” are among
the best lyrical compositions of the early period in which they were
written, and are not without value as historical records. At the
commencement of the Revolution, Barlow, Trumbull, Dwight, Humphreys, and
other “Connecticut wits,” employed their leisure in writing patriotic
songs for the soldiers and the people, “which,” says a life of Putnam,
“had great effect through the country.” “I do not know,” wrote Barlow on
entering the army, “whether I shall do more for the cause in the
capacity of chaplain than I could in that of poet; I have great faith in
the influence of songs; and I shall continue, while fulfilling the
duties of my appointment, to write one now and then, and to encourage
the taste for them which I find in the camp. One good song is worth a
dozen addresses or proclamations.” The great song-writer of the
Revolution, however, was Freneau, whose pieces were everywhere sung with
enthusiasm. He was a keen satirist, and wrote with remarkable facility;
but his lyrics were often profane and vulgar, while those written in New
England, on account of their style and cast of thought, were stigmatized
by the celebrated Parson Peters as “psalms and hymns adapted to the
tastes of Yankee rebels.” The following is a characteristic specimen:
WAR SONG.—_Written in 1776._
Hark, hark, the sound of War is heard,
And we must all attend;
Take up our arms and go with speed
Our country to defend.
Our parent state has turned our foe,
Which fills our land with pain;
Her gallant ships manned out for war
Come thundering o’er the main.
There’s Carleton, Howe, and Clinton too,
And many thousands more,
May cross the sea, but all in vain;
Our rights we’ll ne’er give o’er.
Our pleasant land they do invade,
Our property devour;
And all because we won’t submit
To their despotic power.
Then let us go against our foes,
We’d better die than yield;
We and our sons are all undone
If Britain win the field.
Tories may dream of future joys,
But I am bold to say,
They’ll find themselves bound fast in chains
If Britain wins the day.
Husbands must leave their loving wives
And sprightly youths attend,
Leave their sweethearts and risk their lives
Their country to defend.
May they be heroes in the field,
Have heroes’ fame in store;
We pray the Lord to be their shield
Where thundering cannons roar.
The oldest of the lyrics we shall present in this paper—we reserve,
perhaps for a future number, the historical songs and ballads
unconnected with the Revolution—is the “Patriot’s Appeal,” printed in
the Pennsylvania Chronicle, at Philadelphia, on the 4th of July, just
eight years before the Declaration of Independence. We copy it from a
ballad sheet, dated in 1775.
THE PATRIOT’S APPEAL.
Come join hand and hand brave Americans all,
Awake through the land at fair Liberty’s call;
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,
Or stain with dishonor America’s name!
In freedom we’re born, in freedom we’ll live;
Our purses are ready—
Steady, friends, steady!—
Not as slaves but as freemen our money we’ll give!
Our worthy forefathers (let’s give them a cheer!)
To climates unknown did courageously steer;
Through oceans to deserts for freedom they came
And, dying, bequeathed us their freedom and fame!
In freedom, etc.
Their generous bosoms all dangers despised,
So highly, so wisely, their birthrights they prized;
What they gave let us cherish and piously keep,
Nor frustrate their toils on the land or the deep.
In freedom, etc.
The tree their own hands had to liberty reared,
They lived to behold growing strong and revered;
With transport they cried, “Now our wishes we gain,
For our children shall gather the fruits of our pain.”
In freedom, etc.
How sweet are the labors that freemen endure,
Of which they enjoy all the profits secure!
No longer such toils shall Americans know,
If Britons may reap what Americans sow!
In freedom, etc.
Swarms of _placemen_ and pensioners e’en now appear
Like locusts deforming the charms of the year!
Suns vainly will rise and showers vainly descend,
If we are to drudge for what others may spend.
In freedom, etc.
Then join hand and hand, brave Americans all,
By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall;
In so righteous a cause we may hope to succeed,
For Heaven approves every generous deed.
In freedom, etc.
All ages and nations shall speak with applause,
Of the courage we show in support of our cause,
To die we can bear, but to serve we disdain,
For shame is to freemen more dreadful than pain.
In freedom, etc.
A bumper to Freedom! and as for the king,[8]
When he does deserve it his praises we’ll sing!
We wish Britain’s glory immortal may be,
If she is but just and we are but free!
In freedom we’re born, in freedom we’ll live,
Our purses are ready—
Steady, boys, steady!—
Our money as freemen, not slaves, we will give!
-----
[8] In the copies of this song printed during the Revolution the last
stanza is altered. In the Pennsylvania Chronicle, which we have
examined, it is printed—
This bumper I crown for our sovereign’s health,
And this for Britannia’s glory and wealth, etc.
* * * * *
Soon after the passage of the stamp act many patriotic lyrics appeared
in various parts of the country, one of the best of which is the
following, by Doctor Prime, of New York, the author of “Muscipula sive
Cambromyomachia,” a satire, and of several other poems of considerable
merit.
A SONG FOR THE SONS OF LIBERTY.
In story we’re told,
How our fathers of old
Brav’d the rage of the wind and the waves;
And cross’d the deep o’er,
To this desolate shore,
All because they were loath to be slaves, brave boys!
All because they were loath to be slaves.
Yet a strange scheme of late,
Has been formed in the state,
By a knot of political knaves;
Who in secret rejoice,
That the Parliament’s voice
Has resolved that we all shall be slaves, brave boys! etc.
But if we should obey,
This vile statute the way
To more base future slavery paves;
Nor in spite of our pain,
Must we ever complain,
If we tamely submit to be slaves, brave boys! etc.
Counteract, then, we must
A decree so unjust,
Which our wise constitution depraves;
And all nature conspires,
To approve our desires,
For she cautions us not to be slaves, brave boys! etc.
As the sun’s lucid ray
To all nations gives day,
And a world from obscurity saves;
So all happy and free,
George’s subjects should be,
Then Americans must not be slaves, brave boys! etc.
Heaven only controls
The great deep as it rolls,
And the tide which our country laves
Emphatical roars
This advice to our shores,
O! Americans, never be slaves, brave boys! etc.
Hark! the wind, as it flies,
Though o’errul’d by the skies,
While it each meaner obstacle braves,
Seems to say, “Be like me,
Always loyally free,
But ah! never consent to be slaves,” brave boys! etc.
To our monarch, we know,
Due allegiance we owe,
Who the sceptre so rightfully waves;
But no sovereign we own,
But the king on his throne,
And we cannot, to subjects, be slaves, brave boys! etc.
Though fools stupidly tell,
That we mean to rebel,
Yet all each American craves,
Is but to be free,
As we surely must be,
For we never were born to be slaves, brave boys! etc.
But whoever, in spite
At American right,
Like insolent Haman behaves;
Or would wish to grow great
On the spoils of the state,
May he and his children be slaves, brave boys! etc.
Though against the repeal,
With intemperate zeal,
Proud Granville so brutishly raves;
Yet our conduct shall show,
And our enemies know,
That Americans scorn to be slaves, brave boys! etc.
With the beasts of the wood,
We will ramble for food,
We will lodge in wild deserts and caves;
And live poor as Job,
On the skirts of the globe,
Before we’ll submit to be slaves, brave boys! etc.
The birth-right we hold
Shall never be sold,
But sacred maintain’d to our graves;
And before we’ll comply,
We will gallantly die,
For we must not, we will not be slaves, brave boys!
For we must not, we will not be slaves!
We have copies of four metrical accounts of the destruction of the tea
in Boston Harbor, two of which appear to have been written since the
close of the war. We give one of the oldest, which was sung to the tune
of “The Hosier’s Ghost.”
BALLAD OF THE TEA PARTY.
As near beauteous Boston lying
On the gently swelling flood,
Without jack or pennant 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, axes, chisels,
Weapons new for warlike deed,
Toward the tax’d-tea-freighted vessels
They came boldly and with speed.
O’er their heads in lofty 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 will be won,
Scarce the setting sun shall vanish
Ere the glorious deed is done!”
Quick as thought the ships were boarded,
Hatches burst and chests displayed;
Axes, hammers, help afforded,
What a crush that eve was made!
Deep into the sea 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_!
One of the most ingenious poets of our revolutionary era was Dr. J. M.
Sewall, of New Hampshire. He translated the works of Ossian, which were
then attracting much attention, into English verse, and wrote numerous
songs, odes, elegies and dramatic pieces. His epilogue to Addison’s
Cato, beginning,
We see mankind the same in every age,
is still familiar, from having been incorporated into two or three books
of reading lessons for the schools, in a time when it was thought to be
of some consequence that works of that description should inculcate
patriotic sentiments. The most famous of his productions, however, was
“War and Washington,” written soon after the battle of Lexington, and
sung with enthusiasm, in all parts of the country, until the close of
the Revolution. It has been too often printed to be regarded now as a
curiosity, and we therefore quote from it but a few verses.
Vain Britons boast no longer, with proud indignity,
Of all your conquering legions, or of your strength at sea,
As we, your braver sons, incensed, our arms have girded on,
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for War and Washington!
Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England’s good,
They have, for thirty pieces, betray’d their country’s blood.
Like Esop’s greedy cur they’ll gain a shadow for their bone,
Yet find us fearful shades indeed, inspired by Washington!
Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!
The blundering schemes of Britain, her folly, pride and zeal.
Like lions how they growl and threat, like asses blunder on!
Yet vain are all their efforts still, against our Washington!
Great God! is this the nation, whose arms so oft were hurl’d,
Through Europe, Afric, India? whose Navy rul’d a world!
The lustre of her former deeds, whole ages of renown,
Lost in a moment, or transfer’d, to us and Washington!
Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,
And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy
Turk, Hessian, Jew or Infidel, or all those powers in one,
While Adams guides our senate, our army Washington!
We have not room to copy, _in extenso_, more of those songs which served
no less than the most eloquent orations of the time to kindle the
patriotic enthusiasm of our fathers, in the first years of the struggle
for independence; and after giving specimen verses of one or two others,
will pass to the more strictly historical ballads. We may as well here
remark that the orthography and rhythmical construction of many of the
old songs and ballads varies in the different editions—the earliest
usually being most correct—and that we have copied from the least
inharmonious and corrupt, sometimes giving one verse from one and
another verse from another impression of the same production. The
following stanzas are from “The Rallying Song,” written soon after the
friendly disposition of the government of the unfortunate Louis XIV. was
made known in this country.
Freedom’s sons who wish to shine
Bright in future story,
Haste to arms and join the line
Marching on to glory.
Leave the scythe and seize the sword,
Brave the worst of dangers!
Freedom is the only word—
We to fear are strangers.
From your mountains quick advance
Hearts of oak and iron arms—
Lo! the cheering sounds from France
Spread amid the foe alarms!
Leave the scythe and seize the sword,
Brave the worst of dangers!
Freedom is the only word—
_Come and join the Rangers!_
From “The Green Mountain Boys’ Song,” composed, apparently, in the early
part of the contest, we have space for the chorus only. Though less
poetical than some others, the entire production is animated in
sentiment and smoothly versified. We have no clue to its authorship,
though, like “The Rallying Song,” “The American Rifleman,” and many
other lyrics of the same description, it appears to have been written in
Vermont.
Then draw the trusty blade, my boys,
And fling the sheath away—
Blow high, blow low, come weal, come wo,
Strike for America!
Strike for America, my boys,
Strike for America!
Come weal, come wo, blow high, blow low,
Strike for America!
We have discovered but one narrative song relating to the Battle of
Trenton, and that was probably written a year or two after the event.
BATTLE OF TRENTON.
On Christmas day in ’76,
Our rugged troops with bayonets fix’d,
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 pass’d the night,
Each soldier panting for the fight,
Though quite benumb’d with frost.
Greene on the left, at six began,
The right was with brave Sullivan,
Who ne’er a moment lost.
Their pickets storm’d, the alarm was spread,
That rebels risen from the dead
Were marching into town.
Some scamper’d here, some scamper’d 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.
Burgoyne, more frequently than other British officer, was the butt of
the continental wits. His verses were parodied, his amours celebrated in
songs of the mess-table, and his boasts and the weaker points in his
nature caricatured in ballads and _petite_ comedies. We obtained a
manuscript copy of the song from which the following verses are quoted,
from an octogenarian Vermonter who, with the feeble frame, shrill voice
and silvered locks of eighty-seven, would give the echoing chorus with
as much enthusiasm as when he joined in it with his camp-companions more
than half a century ago.
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 makes 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!
We believe the “Progress of Sir Jack Brag” has never been printed. The
only clue to its authorship with which we are acquainted is the
signature, “G. of H.” It was probably written soon after the defeat of
its hero at Saratoga. Another ballad on the same subject is entitled
THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE.[9][10]
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 staid 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_.
-----
[9] The following curious account of the overthrow of Burgoyne at
Saratoga, on the 17th of October, 1777, was probably written soon after
that memorable event.
Here followeth the direful fate
Of Burgoyne and his army great
Who so proudly did display
The terrors of despotic sway.
His power and pride and many threats
Have been brought low by fort’nate Gates,
To bend to the United States.
[10]
British prisoners by Convention, 2142
Foreigners—by Contra-vention, 2188
Tories sent across the Lake, 1100
Burgoyne and his suite, in state, 12
Sick and wounded, bruised and pounded,} 528
Ne’er so much before confounded,}
Prisoners of war before Convention, 400
Deserters come with kind intention, 300
They lost at Bennington’s great battle, } 1220
Where Starke’s glorious arms did rattle,}
Killed in September and October, 600
Ta’en by brave Brown,[A] some drunk, some sober, 413
Slain by high-flamed Herkerman[B]} 300
On both flanks, on rear and van, }
Indians, suttlers, butchers, drovers,}
Enough to crowd large plains all over,}
And those whom grim Death did prevent}
From fighting against our continent;} 4413
And also those who stole away,}
Lest they down their arms should lay,}
Abhorring that obnoxious day: }
The whole make fourteen thousand men, } 14,000
Who may not with us fight again. }
This is a pretty just account
Of Burgoyne’s legions’ whole amount,
Who came across the Northern Lakes
To desolate our happy States.
Their brass cannons we have got all—
Fifty-six—both great and small;
And ten thousand stand of arms,
To prevent all future harms;
Stores and implements complete,
Of workmanship exceeding neat;
Covered wagons in great plenty,
And proper harness, no way scanty.
Among our prisoners there are
Six generals, of fame most rare;
Six members of their Parliament—
Reluctantly they seem content;
Three British lords, and Lord Belcarras,
Who came, our country free to harass.
Two baronets, of high extraction,
Were sorely wounded in the action.
[A] Col. John Brown, of Mass.
[B] Gen. Herkimer, of N. York, (probably.)
* * * * *
The Massacre of Wyoming was minutely described in several ballads
written before the year 1785, which, we were surprised to find, are
unnoticed by Mr. Stone and the other historians of that celebrated
valley. They will probably be preserved in Mr. Miner’s forthcoming
“Annals.” We quote a few stanzas from the longest one in our possession.
Now as they fly, they _quarters_ cry,
Oh hear, indulgent Heaven!
How hard to state their dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given!
Some men were found, a-flying round,
Sagacious to get clear;
In vain they fly, the foe is nigh,
On flank, in front, and rear!
The enemy did win the day,
Methinks their words were these:
“You cursed rebel Yankee race,
_Will this your Congress please_?”
The death of Andre—just and necessary as it unquestionably was—has
been lamented in a hundred songs; while the chivalrous and accomplished
Hale, murdered with a brutality that would have shocked the
sensibilities of the most depraved and desperate brigands, is alluded to
in but a single ballad among those which have been preserved until our
own time. We transcribe, from the oldest copy in our possession, the
once popular lyric called
BRAVE PAWLING AND THE SPY.
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 resolved 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 Pawling 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 resolved that you shall ne’er pass by.”
Upon examination they found he was a spy.
He begged 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 want not 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, O, 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 brave and bold,
And I fear not the face of clay, although ’tis clothed in gold.”
He saw that his conspiracy would soon be brought to light;
He begg’d for pen and paper, and asked 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 cheeks did wet;
The story soon went thro’ the camp, and also thro’ the fort;
And he called for the Vulture, and sailed for New-York.
Now Arnold to New York has gone, a fighting for his king,
And left poor Major Andre, on the gallows for to swing;
When he was executed, he look’d both meek and mild;
He look’d on his spectators, and pleasantly he smiled.
It moved each eye with pity, caused every heart to bleed;
And every one wish’d him released 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 PAWLING! 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!
In connection with this we give a specimen of the minstrelsy of the
other party. The British and Tories were not often in a singing mood,
and their ballads, with few exceptions, are inferior in spirit and
temper to those of the Whigs. There is some wit, however, in the
following, which is said to have been written by Major Andre—
THE COW CHASE.
PART I.
To drive the kine one summer’s morn,
The tanner[11] 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 New-bridge and Tappan,
And those that drink Passaic’s wave,
And those that eat supaun;
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 doomed 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 IO sing,
And read the General’s letter.
“Know that some paltry refugees,
Whom I’ve a mind to fight,
Are playing h—l amongst the trees,
That grow on yonder height.
“Their fort and block houses 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 the 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 look a heady gill,[12]
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, huzzah for Wayne,
And shouting——. . . . .
-----
[11] Alluding to Wayne’s early occupation.
[12] It was a favorite idea with the Tories that the Whig party
“embraced none of the temperate and respectable portion of the
community.”
PART II.
Near his meridian pomp, the sun
Had journey’d from the horizon,
When fierce the dusky tribe moved on,
Of heroes drunk as pison.
The sounds confus’d of boasting oaths,
Re-echoed 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 signalized,
That fought at Chesnut Hill,
And Canada immortalized
The vender of the pill.
Yet the 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, though slender ranks,
Nor cared a pin for Wayne.
For them the unrelenting hand
Of rebel fury drove,
And tore from every genial band,
Of friendship and of love.
And some within a 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 appeared
In deep distress serene,
Of reverent manners that declared,
The better days they’d seen.
Oh, curs’d rebellion, these are thine,
Thine are these tales of wo,
Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine
Blood never cease to flow?
And now the foe began to lead
His forces to the attack;
Balls whistling unto balls succeed,
And make the Block-House crack.
No shot could pass, if you will take
The General’s word for true;
But ’tis a d——ble mistake,
For every shot went through.
The firmer as the rebels press’d,
The loyal heroes stand;
Virtue had nerved each honest breast,
And industry each hand.
“In[13] valor’s phrenzy, Hamilton,
Rode like a soldier big,
And secretary Harrison,
With pen stuck in his wig.”
“But least their chieftain, Washington,
Should mourn them in the mumps,[14]
The fate of Withrington to shun,
They fought behind the stumps.”
But ah, Thadæus Posset, why
Should thy poor soul elope?
And why should Titus Hooper die,
Aye, die—without a rope?
Apostate Murphy, thou to whom
Fair Shela ne’er was cruel,
_In death shall hear her_ mourn thy doom,
“Och! would you die, my jewel?”
Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,
Of melancholy fate,
The grey 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 generals 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.
-----
[13] Vide Lee’s Trial.
[14] A disorder prevalent in the rebel lines.
PART 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 haranguing,
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 come 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, “O 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 retired from the _bodies_,[15]
In all the pomp of war;
That drums and merry fifes had play’d
To honor her retreat,
And Cunningham himself convey’d
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 the imperial banner,
And for a gypsy lost a day,
Like Anthony the tanner.
The hamadryad had but half
Received address from Wayne,
When drums and colors, cow and calf,
Came down the road amain.
All in a cloud of dust were seen,
The sheep, the horse, the goat,
The gentle heifer, ass obscene,
The yearling and the shoat.
And pack-horses with fowls came by,
Befeathered 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 canon, 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?
[16]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 day dark is,
And you shall see what you shall see,
Ha! ha! my pretty Marquis!
“And he shall come to Paules-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 cornstock whiskey for his grog,
Blue stockings and brown breeches.
And now I’ve closed my epic strain,
I tremble as I show it,
Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,
Should ever catch the poet.
-----
[15] A cant appellation given amongst the soldiery to the corps that had
the honor to guard his Majesty’s person.
[16] Five refugees (’tis true) were found stiff on the block-house
floor, But then, ’tis thought, the shot went round, and in at the back
door.
* * * * *
From a large collection of naval ballads, we select the following, as
one of the most curious of its class, and because, like several others
in this collection, it has never before been printed. It was written by
the surgeon of the “Fair American,” and was familiar to the
Massachusetts privateersmen during the last years of the Revolution. The
“noble captain,” we believe, was an ancestor of the inimitable author,
Nathaniel Hawthorne, of Salem.
BOLD HAWTHORNE.
The twenty-second of August, before the close of day,
All hands on board 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 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,
Of all your conq’ring armies, your 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 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 far unto the southward as the Gulf of Florida,
Where we observed a British ship, returning from the main;
We gave her two bow chasers, and she return’d the same.
We hauled up our courses, and so prepared for fight;
The contest held four glasses, until the dusk of night;
Then having sprung our mainmast, and had so large a sea,
We dropped astern and left our chase till the returning day.
Next morn we fished our mainmast, the ship still being nigh,
All hands made for engaging, our luck once more to try;
But wind and sea being boist’rous our cannon would not bear,
We thought it quite imprudent, and so we left her there.
We cruised to the eastward, near the coast of Portingale;
In longitude of twenty-seven, we saw a lofty sail;
We gave her chase and soon we saw she was a British scow,
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 now beat 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 had her men secured,
She bore directly for us, and put us close on board;
When cannon roar’d like thunder, and muskets fired amain,
But soon we were alongside and grappled to her chain.
And now the scene it alter’d, 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,[17] 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!_
-----
[17] Captain Hawthorne was wounded in the head by a musket ball. His
ship was called “The Fair American.”
* * * * *
We have extended this article already too far, and will present but one
other specimen of our revolutionary lyrics. It is not known who wrote
“American Taxation.” In an edition printed in 1811, it is credited to B.
Gleason, and on an earlier impression we find the name of Benjamin
Franklin. We do not, however, believe it was written by the doctor,
though in addition to the circumstance we have mentioned, Lieutenant
Ellis alludes, in his Life, to “Franklin’s song on the Stamp Act.” It is
an undoubted _antique_, and, excepting the satirical ballad by Major
Andre, we know of nothing produced at so early a period in this country
that is equal to it.
AMERICAN TAXATION.
While I relate my story, Americans give ear;
Of Britain’s fading glory, you presently shall hear,
I’ll give a true relation, attend to what I say,
Concerning the taxation of North America.
The cruel lords of Britain, who glory in their shame,
The project they have hit on they joyfully proclaim;
’Tis what they’re striving after, our right to take away,
And rob us of our charter, in North America.
There are two mighty speakers, who rule in Parliament,
Who ever have been seeking some mischief to invent;
’Twas North and Bute, his father, the horrid plan did lay,
A mighty tax to gather, in North America.
They searched the gloomy regions of the infernal pit,
To find among their legions one who excell’d in wit,
To ask of him assistance, or tell them how they may
Subdue without resistance this North America.
Old Satan, the arch traitor, who rules the burning lake,
Where he’s chief navigator, resolved a voyage to take,
For the Britannic ocean he launches far away,
To land he had no notion in North America.
He takes his seat in Britain, it was his soul’s intent,
Great George’s throne to sit on, and rule the Parliament;
His comrades were pursuing a diabolic way,
For to complete the ruin of North of America.
He tried the art of magic to bring his schemes about,
At length the gloomy project he artfully found out:
The plan was long indulged in a clandestine way,
But lately was divulged in North America.
These subtle arch-combiners address’d the British court,
All three were undersigners of this obscure report—
There is a pleasant landscape that lieth far away,
Beyond the wide Atlantic, in North America.
There is a wealthy people, who sojourn in that land,
Their churches all with steeples most delicately stand,
Their houses, like the gilly, are painted red and gay;
They flourish like the lily, in North America.
Their land with milk and honey continually doth flow,
The want of food or money they seldom ever know:
They heap up golden treasure, they have no debts to pay,
They spend their time in pleasure, in North America.
On turkeys, fowls, and fishes, most frequently they dine,
With gold and silver dishes their tables always shine,
They crown their feasts with butter, they eat and rise to play,
In silks their ladies flutter, in North America.
With gold and silver laces they do themselves adorn,
The rubies deck their faces, refulgent as the morn!
Wine sparkles in their glasses, they spend each happy day
In merriment and dances, in North America.
Let not our suit affront you, when we address your throne,
O king, this wealthy country and subjects are your own,
And you, their rightful sovereign, they truly must obey,
You have a right to govern this North America.
O king, you’ve heard the sequel of what we now subscribe,
Is it not just and equal to tax this wealthy tribe?
The question being asked, his majesty did say,
My subjects shall be taxed 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 hoist 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 with 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 distressed, while in their native land;
By tyrants were oppressed, as I do understand;
For freedom and religion they were resolved to stray,
And try the desert regions of North America.
Kind Heaven was their 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.
To sail they were commanded about the hour of noon,
At Plymouth shore they landed, the twenty-first of June;
The savages were nettled, with fear they fled away,
And peaceably they settled on North America.
We are their bold descendants, for liberty we’ll fight,
The claim to independence we challenge as our right.
’Tis what kind Heaven gave us, who can take it away?
O Heaven, sure, 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.
We have a bold commander, who fears not sword nor 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 engaged all in a dirty cause,
A cruel war have waged 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 attend awhile,
We forced your bold Sir Peter from Sullivan’s fair isle;
At Monmouth too we gained the honors of the day—
The victory we obtained 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, Gates, and Putnam and conquering Washington;
Their names be wrote in letters which never will decay,
While sun and moon do glitter in 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 laud 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.
The “old and antique songs” we have quoted are not eminently poetical,
and the fastidious reader may fancy there are in some of them qualities
that should have prevented their publication. We appeal to the
antiquaries. The “Cow Chase” will live long after
the light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy paced times
are forgotten, and other songs and ballads of our Revolution will in the
next century be prized more highly than the richest gems of Percy or
Motherwell. They are the very mirrors of the times in which they were
sung. As may have been observed, we have given none of the lyrics of
Freneau. We shall, perhaps, review the “American Körner” in a future
number. Free, daring, honest, and with sarcastic powers which made his
pen as terrible to the Tories and the British officers as that of
Coleridge was to Napoleon, he did as good service to the great cause
from his obscure printing office, as many a more celebrated patriot did
in camp or legislature. The energy and exultation with which he
recounted, in rapidly written songs, the successes of the Whigs, were
equaled only by the keenness of his wit, and the appositeness of his
humor. Nor was it in satire and song alone that he excelled. Though we
claim not for him, superior as he was to his American cotemporaries, the
praise due to a true poet, some of his pieces are distinguished for a
directness of expression, a manliness, fervor, and fine vein of poetical
feeling, that will secure for them a permanent place in our literature.
Yet Freneau—the patriot, poet, soldier—died miserably poor, within the
last ten years, while the national legislature was anxiously debating
what should be done with the “surplus money in the treasury.”
* * * * *
To Readers and Correspondents.—It affords us great pleasure to be able
to state that this work will hereafter be enriched with papers from the
pen of RICHARD H. DANA, the author of “The Buccaneers,” “The Idle Man,”
etc. It will not, we think, be doubted that, with Bryant, Cooper, Dana,
Hoffman, Longfellow, etc., we have now a better corps of contributors
than any other magazine in the English language. Mr. Dana’s first
article will grace our pages for November.
“A Night at Haddon Hall,” in this number is from the pen of a venerable,
but enthusiastic antiquary, as its manner may bear witness. Mrs. Anne
Radcliffe’s ingenious “situations” for her heroines were never more
“horrible” than that of Miss Chamberlain in the tapestried chamber, and
the tale of Haddon Hall has the rare merit of being _true_.
It will be observed that our present number contains a story by Mrs.
“Mary Clavers,” the clever author of “A New Home” and “Forest Life.”
Several articles prepared for our present issue are, unavoidably,
postponed. Correspondents who had reason to suppose their favors would
appear in October, will find them inserted in our next number.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.
In the continuation of Longfellow’s _The Spanish Student_, there was a
misnumbering of scenes. The original numbering as printed in the
magazine has been retained. There are two scenes numbered Scene II. The
second Scene II should be Scene III with remaining scenes numbered in
sequence.
A cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public
domain.
[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 4, October 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]