'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red lightBrooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,—Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:"The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,"We have got the alarm,—they have left Phips's farm;You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:"Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forwardthe town.Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of lightLead thy children to-night to the glories of day!And let thy stars fight all the foes of the RightAs the stars fought of old against Sisera."And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,Till the last of them faded in twilight away;And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:"On the King's own highway I may travel all day,And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;"I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."Then he turned to the boys,—"Forward, march! Follow me."And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he playedThe old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.We saw Davis fall dead, but no man was afraid;That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.This opened the play, and it lasted all day.We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the headAs he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,—Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;Fill your horn from mine,—let me lie where I be.Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;And that man is a knave or a fool who, to saveHis life for a minute, would live like a slave."Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,—From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,—Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.We knew, every one, it was war that begun,When that morning's marching was only half done.In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,"Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and MunroeAnd Baker and Abram and I made a bed.We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:"It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to meTo march to the sea by this road where we've come;But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us sayWe'd rather have spent it this way than to home."*****The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.And never since then, in the memory of men,Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.Edward Everett Hale.April 19, 1882.
'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red lightBrooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,—Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:"The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,"We have got the alarm,—they have left Phips's farm;You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:"Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forwardthe town.Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of lightLead thy children to-night to the glories of day!And let thy stars fight all the foes of the RightAs the stars fought of old against Sisera."And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,Till the last of them faded in twilight away;And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:"On the King's own highway I may travel all day,And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;"I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."Then he turned to the boys,—"Forward, march! Follow me."And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he playedThe old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.We saw Davis fall dead, but no man was afraid;That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.This opened the play, and it lasted all day.We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the headAs he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,—Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;Fill your horn from mine,—let me lie where I be.Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;And that man is a knave or a fool who, to saveHis life for a minute, would live like a slave."Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,—From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,—Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.We knew, every one, it was war that begun,When that morning's marching was only half done.In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,"Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and MunroeAnd Baker and Abram and I made a bed.We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:"It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to meTo march to the sea by this road where we've come;But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us sayWe'd rather have spent it this way than to home."*****The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.And never since then, in the memory of men,Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.Edward Everett Hale.April 19, 1882.
'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red lightBrooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,—Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:"The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."
Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.
Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,"We have got the alarm,—they have left Phips's farm;You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."
John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:"Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.
By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forwardthe town.
Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of lightLead thy children to-night to the glories of day!And let thy stars fight all the foes of the RightAs the stars fought of old against Sisera."
And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,Till the last of them faded in twilight away;And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:
"On the King's own highway I may travel all day,And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;"I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."Then he turned to the boys,—"Forward, march! Follow me."
And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he playedThe old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.We saw Davis fall dead, but no man was afraid;That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.
This opened the play, and it lasted all day.We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.
They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the headAs he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.
John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,—Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.
I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;Fill your horn from mine,—let me lie where I be.Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;And that man is a knave or a fool who, to saveHis life for a minute, would live like a slave."
Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,—From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,—Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.We knew, every one, it was war that begun,When that morning's marching was only half done.
In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,"Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."
In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and MunroeAnd Baker and Abram and I made a bed.We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:"It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to meTo march to the sea by this road where we've come;But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us sayWe'd rather have spent it this way than to home."
*****
The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.And never since then, in the memory of men,Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.
Edward Everett Hale.
April 19, 1882.
THE KING'S OWN REGULARS
AND THEIR TRIUMPH OVER THE IRREGULARS
Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;So I'll sing you a song,—as a body may say,'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars.At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,And recover some credit by better behavior:We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,So feet swore they would stand, but—legs ran however.No troops perform better than we at reviews,We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,There we all fight with courage—you may see 't in the news.To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;That great expedition cost infinite sums,But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should have beat them with ease,They may fight with one another that way if they please,But it is notregularto stand, and fight with such rascals as these.At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,We show'd our vast skill in fortification;The French fired three guns;—of the fourth they had no occasion;For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,Because they fought behind trees, which is not theregularfashion.Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;With a great regular army he went on his way,Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,But returned—without seeing it,—for he didn'tfeel boldthat day.Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own.The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't fight,And so he sent us over to take away their right;But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder,For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.Our general with his council of war did adviseHow at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;We march'd—and re-marched—all surprised—at being beat;And so our wise general's plan ofsurprise—was complete.For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger;But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;'Twas not ingoing out, but inreturning, consisted ourEXPEDITION.Says our general, "We were forced to take to ourarmsin our defence(Forarmsreadlegs, and it will be both truth and sense),Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,And that is—'I can never enough praise him for his great—agility.'"Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other;Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace us,'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees—could not face us.As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.Pennsylvania Evening Post, March 30, 1776.
Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;So I'll sing you a song,—as a body may say,'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars.At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,And recover some credit by better behavior:We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,So feet swore they would stand, but—legs ran however.No troops perform better than we at reviews,We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,There we all fight with courage—you may see 't in the news.To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;That great expedition cost infinite sums,But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should have beat them with ease,They may fight with one another that way if they please,But it is notregularto stand, and fight with such rascals as these.At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,We show'd our vast skill in fortification;The French fired three guns;—of the fourth they had no occasion;For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,Because they fought behind trees, which is not theregularfashion.Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;With a great regular army he went on his way,Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,But returned—without seeing it,—for he didn'tfeel boldthat day.Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own.The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't fight,And so he sent us over to take away their right;But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder,For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.Our general with his council of war did adviseHow at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;We march'd—and re-marched—all surprised—at being beat;And so our wise general's plan ofsurprise—was complete.For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger;But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;'Twas not ingoing out, but inreturning, consisted ourEXPEDITION.Says our general, "We were forced to take to ourarmsin our defence(Forarmsreadlegs, and it will be both truth and sense),Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,And that is—'I can never enough praise him for his great—agility.'"Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other;Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace us,'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees—could not face us.As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.Pennsylvania Evening Post, March 30, 1776.
Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;So I'll sing you a song,—as a body may say,'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars.
At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.
At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,And recover some credit by better behavior:We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,So feet swore they would stand, but—legs ran however.
No troops perform better than we at reviews,We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,There we all fight with courage—you may see 't in the news.
To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;That great expedition cost infinite sums,But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.
It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should have beat them with ease,They may fight with one another that way if they please,But it is notregularto stand, and fight with such rascals as these.
At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,We show'd our vast skill in fortification;The French fired three guns;—of the fourth they had no occasion;For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.
To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,Because they fought behind trees, which is not theregularfashion.
Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;With a great regular army he went on his way,Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,But returned—without seeing it,—for he didn'tfeel boldthat day.
Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own.
The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't fight,And so he sent us over to take away their right;But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder,For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.
Our general with his council of war did adviseHow at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;We march'd—and re-marched—all surprised—at being beat;And so our wise general's plan ofsurprise—was complete.
For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger;But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;'Twas not ingoing out, but inreturning, consisted ourEXPEDITION.
Says our general, "We were forced to take to ourarmsin our defence(Forarmsreadlegs, and it will be both truth and sense),Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,And that is—'I can never enough praise him for his great—agility.'"
Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other;Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace us,'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees—could not face us.
As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.
Pennsylvania Evening Post, March 30, 1776.
How the alarm of the fight spread through the countryside, how men left the plough, the loom, the anvil, and hastened, musket in hand, to the land's defence that day, has been told and retold in song and story. Here is the story of Morgan Stanwood, one among hundreds such.
How the alarm of the fight spread through the countryside, how men left the plough, the loom, the anvil, and hastened, musket in hand, to the land's defence that day, has been told and retold in song and story. Here is the story of Morgan Stanwood, one among hundreds such.
MORGAN STANWOOD
CAPE ANN, 1775
Morgan Stanwood, patriot!Little more is known;Nothing of his home is leftBut the door-step stone.Morgan Stanwood, to our thoughtYou return once more;Once again the meadows liftDaisies to your door.Once again the morn is sweet,Half the hay is down,—Hark! what means that sudden clangFrom the distant town?Larum bell and rolling drumAnswer sea-borne guns;Larum bell and rolling drumSummon Freedom's sons!And the mower thinks to himCry both bell and drum,"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?Here th' invaders come!""Morgan Stanwood" need no moreBell and drum-beat call;He is one who, hearing once,Answers once for all.Ne'er the mower murmured then,"Half my grass is mown,Homespun isn't soldier-wear,Each may save his own."Fallen scythe and aftermathLie forgotten now;Winter need may come and findBut a barren mow.Down the musket comes. "Good wife,—Wife, a quicker flint!"And the face that questions faceHath no color in 't."Wife, if I am late to-night,Milk the heifer first;—Ruth, if I'm not home at all,—Worse has come to worst."Morgan Stanwood sped along,Not the common road;Over wall and hill-top straight,Straight to death, he strode;Leaving her to hear at nightTread of burdened men,By the gate and through the gate,At the door, and then—Ever after that to hear,When the grass is sweet,Through the gate and through the night,Slowly coming feet.Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;Here the door-step lies;One may stand thereon and think,—For the thought will rise,—Were we where the meadow was,Mowing grass alone,Would we go the way he went,From this very stone?Were we on the door-step here,Parting for a day,Would we utter words as thoughParting were for aye?Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,Meadow-math is sweet;Parting be as parting may,After all, we meet.Hiram Rich.
Morgan Stanwood, patriot!Little more is known;Nothing of his home is leftBut the door-step stone.Morgan Stanwood, to our thoughtYou return once more;Once again the meadows liftDaisies to your door.Once again the morn is sweet,Half the hay is down,—Hark! what means that sudden clangFrom the distant town?Larum bell and rolling drumAnswer sea-borne guns;Larum bell and rolling drumSummon Freedom's sons!And the mower thinks to himCry both bell and drum,"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?Here th' invaders come!""Morgan Stanwood" need no moreBell and drum-beat call;He is one who, hearing once,Answers once for all.Ne'er the mower murmured then,"Half my grass is mown,Homespun isn't soldier-wear,Each may save his own."Fallen scythe and aftermathLie forgotten now;Winter need may come and findBut a barren mow.Down the musket comes. "Good wife,—Wife, a quicker flint!"And the face that questions faceHath no color in 't."Wife, if I am late to-night,Milk the heifer first;—Ruth, if I'm not home at all,—Worse has come to worst."Morgan Stanwood sped along,Not the common road;Over wall and hill-top straight,Straight to death, he strode;Leaving her to hear at nightTread of burdened men,By the gate and through the gate,At the door, and then—Ever after that to hear,When the grass is sweet,Through the gate and through the night,Slowly coming feet.Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;Here the door-step lies;One may stand thereon and think,—For the thought will rise,—Were we where the meadow was,Mowing grass alone,Would we go the way he went,From this very stone?Were we on the door-step here,Parting for a day,Would we utter words as thoughParting were for aye?Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,Meadow-math is sweet;Parting be as parting may,After all, we meet.Hiram Rich.
Morgan Stanwood, patriot!Little more is known;Nothing of his home is leftBut the door-step stone.
Morgan Stanwood, to our thoughtYou return once more;Once again the meadows liftDaisies to your door.
Once again the morn is sweet,Half the hay is down,—Hark! what means that sudden clangFrom the distant town?
Larum bell and rolling drumAnswer sea-borne guns;Larum bell and rolling drumSummon Freedom's sons!
And the mower thinks to himCry both bell and drum,"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?Here th' invaders come!"
"Morgan Stanwood" need no moreBell and drum-beat call;He is one who, hearing once,Answers once for all.
Ne'er the mower murmured then,"Half my grass is mown,Homespun isn't soldier-wear,Each may save his own."
Fallen scythe and aftermathLie forgotten now;Winter need may come and findBut a barren mow.
Down the musket comes. "Good wife,—Wife, a quicker flint!"And the face that questions faceHath no color in 't.
"Wife, if I am late to-night,Milk the heifer first;—Ruth, if I'm not home at all,—Worse has come to worst."
Morgan Stanwood sped along,Not the common road;Over wall and hill-top straight,Straight to death, he strode;
Leaving her to hear at nightTread of burdened men,By the gate and through the gate,At the door, and then—
Ever after that to hear,When the grass is sweet,Through the gate and through the night,Slowly coming feet.
Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;Here the door-step lies;One may stand thereon and think,—For the thought will rise,—
Were we where the meadow was,Mowing grass alone,Would we go the way he went,From this very stone?
Were we on the door-step here,Parting for a day,Would we utter words as thoughParting were for aye?
Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,Meadow-math is sweet;Parting be as parting may,After all, we meet.
Hiram Rich.
Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon, while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for the firing line.
Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon, while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for the firing line.
THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO'
[April 19, 1775]
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed—A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that dayTo hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due,The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayerUnto the God of armies for the battles they must share;He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by.The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strifeThat shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side.The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woeTheir late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the worldWith God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.Wallace Rice.
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed—A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that dayTo hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due,The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayerUnto the God of armies for the battles they must share;He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by.The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strifeThat shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side.The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woeTheir late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the worldWith God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.Wallace Rice.
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed—A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that dayTo hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:
"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"
The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.
The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due,The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayerUnto the God of armies for the battles they must share;He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives good-by.The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strifeThat shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.
At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side.The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woeTheir late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.
The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the worldWith God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.
Wallace Rice.
LEXINGTON
[1775]
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,No battle-joy was theirs, who setAgainst the alien bayonetTheir homespun breasts in that old day.Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;They saw not, what to us is plain,That God would make man's wrath His praise.No seers were they, but simple men;Its vast results the future hid:The meaning of the work they didWas strange and dark and doubtful then.Swift as their summons came they leftThe plough mid-furrow standing still,The half-ground corn grist in the mill,The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.They went where duty seemed to call,They scarcely asked the reason why;They only knew they could but die,And death was not the worst of all!Of man for man the sacrifice,All that was theirs to give, they gave.The flowers that blossomed from their graveHave sown themselves beneath all skies.Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,And shattered slavery's chain as well;On the sky's dome, as on a bell,Its echo struck the world's great hour.That fateful echo is not dumb:The nations listening to its soundWait, from a century's vantage-ground,The holier triumphs yet to come,—The bridal time of Law and Love,The gladness of the world's release,When, war-sick, at the feet of PeaceThe hawk shall nestle with the dove!—The golden age of brotherhoodUnknown to other rivalriesThan of the mild humanities,And gracious interchange of good,When closer strand shall lean to strand,Till meet, beneath saluting flags,The eagle of our mountain-crags,The lion of our Motherland!John Greenleaf Whittier.
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,No battle-joy was theirs, who setAgainst the alien bayonetTheir homespun breasts in that old day.Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;They saw not, what to us is plain,That God would make man's wrath His praise.No seers were they, but simple men;Its vast results the future hid:The meaning of the work they didWas strange and dark and doubtful then.Swift as their summons came they leftThe plough mid-furrow standing still,The half-ground corn grist in the mill,The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.They went where duty seemed to call,They scarcely asked the reason why;They only knew they could but die,And death was not the worst of all!Of man for man the sacrifice,All that was theirs to give, they gave.The flowers that blossomed from their graveHave sown themselves beneath all skies.Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,And shattered slavery's chain as well;On the sky's dome, as on a bell,Its echo struck the world's great hour.That fateful echo is not dumb:The nations listening to its soundWait, from a century's vantage-ground,The holier triumphs yet to come,—The bridal time of Law and Love,The gladness of the world's release,When, war-sick, at the feet of PeaceThe hawk shall nestle with the dove!—The golden age of brotherhoodUnknown to other rivalriesThan of the mild humanities,And gracious interchange of good,When closer strand shall lean to strand,Till meet, beneath saluting flags,The eagle of our mountain-crags,The lion of our Motherland!John Greenleaf Whittier.
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,No battle-joy was theirs, who setAgainst the alien bayonetTheir homespun breasts in that old day.
Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;They saw not, what to us is plain,That God would make man's wrath His praise.
No seers were they, but simple men;Its vast results the future hid:The meaning of the work they didWas strange and dark and doubtful then.
Swift as their summons came they leftThe plough mid-furrow standing still,The half-ground corn grist in the mill,The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.
They went where duty seemed to call,They scarcely asked the reason why;They only knew they could but die,And death was not the worst of all!
Of man for man the sacrifice,All that was theirs to give, they gave.The flowers that blossomed from their graveHave sown themselves beneath all skies.
Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,And shattered slavery's chain as well;On the sky's dome, as on a bell,Its echo struck the world's great hour.
That fateful echo is not dumb:The nations listening to its soundWait, from a century's vantage-ground,The holier triumphs yet to come,—
The bridal time of Law and Love,The gladness of the world's release,When, war-sick, at the feet of PeaceThe hawk shall nestle with the dove!—
The golden age of brotherhoodUnknown to other rivalriesThan of the mild humanities,And gracious interchange of good,
When closer strand shall lean to strand,Till meet, beneath saluting flags,The eagle of our mountain-crags,The lion of our Motherland!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The news of the fight at Lexington spread with remarkable rapidity throughout the whole country, and nearly every colony at once took steps for the enlistment and training of a colonial militia. No stronger proof of the electric condition of the country could be offered than the way in which men everywhere rushed to arms.
The news of the fight at Lexington spread with remarkable rapidity throughout the whole country, and nearly every colony at once took steps for the enlistment and training of a colonial militia. No stronger proof of the electric condition of the country could be offered than the way in which men everywhere rushed to arms.
THE RISING
From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"
Out of the North the wild news came,Far flashing on its wings of flame,Swift as the boreal light which fliesAt midnight through the startled skies.And there was tumult in the air,The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,And through the wild land everywhereThe answering tread of hurrying feet,While the first oath of Freedom's gunCame on the blast from Lexington;And Concord, roused, no longer tame,Forgot her old baptismal name,Made bare her patriot arm of power,And swell'd the discord of the hour.*****Within its shade of elm and oakThe church of Berkeley Manor stood;There Sunday found the rural folk,And some esteem'd of gentle blood.In vain their feet with loitering treadPass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;All could not read the lesson taughtIn that republic of the dead.*****The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;The psalm was warrior David's song;The text, a few short words of might,—"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"He spoke of wrongs too long endured,Of sacred rights to be secured;Then from his patriot tongue of flameThe startling words for Freedom came.The stirring sentences he spakeCompell'd the heart to glow or quake,And, rising on his theme's broad wing,And grasping in his nervous handThe imaginary battle-brand,In face of death he dared to flingDefiance to a tyrant King.Even as he spoke, his frame, renewedIn eloquence of attitude,Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;Then swept his kindling glance of fireFrom startled pew to breathless choir;When suddenly his mantle wideHis hands impatient flung aside,And, lo! he met their wondering eyesComplete in all a warrior's guise.A moment there was awful pause,—When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!God's temple is the house of peace!"The other shouted, "Nay, not so,When God is with our righteous cause;His holiest places then are ours,His temples are our forts and towersThat frown upon the tyrant foe;In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,There is a time to fight and pray!"And now before the open door—The warrior priest had order'd so—The enlisting trumpet's sudden soarRang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,Its long reverberating blow,So loud and clear, it seem'd the earOf dusty death must wake and hear.And there the startling drum and fifeFired the living with fiercer life;While overhead, with wild increase,Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,The great bell swung as ne'er before.It seemed as it would never cease;And every word its ardor flungFrom off its jubilant iron tongueWas, "War! war! war!""Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry,As striding from the desk he came—"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,For her to live, for her to die?"A hundred hands flung up reply,A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
Out of the North the wild news came,Far flashing on its wings of flame,Swift as the boreal light which fliesAt midnight through the startled skies.And there was tumult in the air,The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,And through the wild land everywhereThe answering tread of hurrying feet,While the first oath of Freedom's gunCame on the blast from Lexington;And Concord, roused, no longer tame,Forgot her old baptismal name,Made bare her patriot arm of power,And swell'd the discord of the hour.*****Within its shade of elm and oakThe church of Berkeley Manor stood;There Sunday found the rural folk,And some esteem'd of gentle blood.In vain their feet with loitering treadPass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;All could not read the lesson taughtIn that republic of the dead.*****The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;The psalm was warrior David's song;The text, a few short words of might,—"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"He spoke of wrongs too long endured,Of sacred rights to be secured;Then from his patriot tongue of flameThe startling words for Freedom came.The stirring sentences he spakeCompell'd the heart to glow or quake,And, rising on his theme's broad wing,And grasping in his nervous handThe imaginary battle-brand,In face of death he dared to flingDefiance to a tyrant King.Even as he spoke, his frame, renewedIn eloquence of attitude,Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;Then swept his kindling glance of fireFrom startled pew to breathless choir;When suddenly his mantle wideHis hands impatient flung aside,And, lo! he met their wondering eyesComplete in all a warrior's guise.A moment there was awful pause,—When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!God's temple is the house of peace!"The other shouted, "Nay, not so,When God is with our righteous cause;His holiest places then are ours,His temples are our forts and towersThat frown upon the tyrant foe;In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,There is a time to fight and pray!"And now before the open door—The warrior priest had order'd so—The enlisting trumpet's sudden soarRang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,Its long reverberating blow,So loud and clear, it seem'd the earOf dusty death must wake and hear.And there the startling drum and fifeFired the living with fiercer life;While overhead, with wild increase,Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,The great bell swung as ne'er before.It seemed as it would never cease;And every word its ardor flungFrom off its jubilant iron tongueWas, "War! war! war!""Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry,As striding from the desk he came—"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,For her to live, for her to die?"A hundred hands flung up reply,A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
Out of the North the wild news came,Far flashing on its wings of flame,Swift as the boreal light which fliesAt midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,And through the wild land everywhereThe answering tread of hurrying feet,While the first oath of Freedom's gunCame on the blast from Lexington;And Concord, roused, no longer tame,Forgot her old baptismal name,Made bare her patriot arm of power,And swell'd the discord of the hour.
*****
Within its shade of elm and oakThe church of Berkeley Manor stood;There Sunday found the rural folk,And some esteem'd of gentle blood.In vain their feet with loitering treadPass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;All could not read the lesson taughtIn that republic of the dead.
*****
The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;The psalm was warrior David's song;The text, a few short words of might,—"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"He spoke of wrongs too long endured,Of sacred rights to be secured;Then from his patriot tongue of flameThe startling words for Freedom came.The stirring sentences he spakeCompell'd the heart to glow or quake,And, rising on his theme's broad wing,And grasping in his nervous handThe imaginary battle-brand,In face of death he dared to flingDefiance to a tyrant King.
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewedIn eloquence of attitude,Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;Then swept his kindling glance of fireFrom startled pew to breathless choir;When suddenly his mantle wideHis hands impatient flung aside,And, lo! he met their wondering eyesComplete in all a warrior's guise.
A moment there was awful pause,—When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!God's temple is the house of peace!"The other shouted, "Nay, not so,When God is with our righteous cause;His holiest places then are ours,His temples are our forts and towersThat frown upon the tyrant foe;In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,There is a time to fight and pray!"
And now before the open door—The warrior priest had order'd so—The enlisting trumpet's sudden soarRang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,Its long reverberating blow,So loud and clear, it seem'd the earOf dusty death must wake and hear.And there the startling drum and fifeFired the living with fiercer life;While overhead, with wild increase,Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,The great bell swung as ne'er before.It seemed as it would never cease;And every word its ardor flungFrom off its jubilant iron tongueWas, "War! war! war!"
"Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry,As striding from the desk he came—"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,For her to live, for her to die?"A hundred hands flung up reply,A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Early in May, news of the fight at Lexington reached Machias, Maine, and on the 11th a party of young men boarded the British armed schooner, Margaretta, which was in the harbor there, and forced her to surrender, after a loss of about twenty on each side.
Early in May, news of the fight at Lexington reached Machias, Maine, and on the 11th a party of young men boarded the British armed schooner, Margaretta, which was in the harbor there, and forced her to surrender, after a loss of about twenty on each side.
THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA[4]
[May 11, 1775]
IFour young men, of a Monday morn,Heard that the flag of peace was torn;Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,Had fought the British at Lexington,While they were far from that bloody plain,Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,They talked of the glory their friends had earned,And asked each other, "What can we do,So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"IISilent the Margaretta lay,Out on the bosom of the bay;On her masts rich bunting gleamed;Bravely the flag of England streamed.The young men gazed at the tempting prize—They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dreadAnd hoist the pine-tree flag instead."We are only boys to the old and sage;We have not yet come to manhood's age;"But we can show them that, when there's need,Men may follow and boys may lead."Tightly each other's hand they pressed,Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;"The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."IIIThey ran to a sloop that lay near by;They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,And called for a crew of volunteers.Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,And men came running from every side.Curious armed were the dauntless ones,With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"IVWith sails all set, trim as could be,The Margaretta stood out to sea.With every man and boy in place,The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"A sound of thunder, echoing wide,Came from the Margaretta's side;A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,And one of the brave pursuers fell.They aimed a gun at the schooner then,And sent the compliment back again;He who at the helm of the schooner stood,Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.VEach burning to pay a bloody debt,The crews of the hostile vessels met;The Western nation now to be,Made her first fight upon the sea.And not till forty men were slain,Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.One of the youths, the deed to crown,Grasped the colors and pulled them down;And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,The pine-tree flag of blue and white.And the truth was shown, for the world to read,That men may follow and boys may lead.Will Carleton.
IFour young men, of a Monday morn,Heard that the flag of peace was torn;Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,Had fought the British at Lexington,While they were far from that bloody plain,Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,They talked of the glory their friends had earned,And asked each other, "What can we do,So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"IISilent the Margaretta lay,Out on the bosom of the bay;On her masts rich bunting gleamed;Bravely the flag of England streamed.The young men gazed at the tempting prize—They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dreadAnd hoist the pine-tree flag instead."We are only boys to the old and sage;We have not yet come to manhood's age;"But we can show them that, when there's need,Men may follow and boys may lead."Tightly each other's hand they pressed,Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;"The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."IIIThey ran to a sloop that lay near by;They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,And called for a crew of volunteers.Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,And men came running from every side.Curious armed were the dauntless ones,With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"IVWith sails all set, trim as could be,The Margaretta stood out to sea.With every man and boy in place,The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"A sound of thunder, echoing wide,Came from the Margaretta's side;A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,And one of the brave pursuers fell.They aimed a gun at the schooner then,And sent the compliment back again;He who at the helm of the schooner stood,Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.VEach burning to pay a bloody debt,The crews of the hostile vessels met;The Western nation now to be,Made her first fight upon the sea.And not till forty men were slain,Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.One of the youths, the deed to crown,Grasped the colors and pulled them down;And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,The pine-tree flag of blue and white.And the truth was shown, for the world to read,That men may follow and boys may lead.Will Carleton.
IFour young men, of a Monday morn,Heard that the flag of peace was torn;
Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,Had fought the British at Lexington,
While they were far from that bloody plain,Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.
With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,They talked of the glory their friends had earned,
And asked each other, "What can we do,So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"
IISilent the Margaretta lay,Out on the bosom of the bay;
On her masts rich bunting gleamed;Bravely the flag of England streamed.
The young men gazed at the tempting prize—They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;
Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dreadAnd hoist the pine-tree flag instead.
"We are only boys to the old and sage;We have not yet come to manhood's age;
"But we can show them that, when there's need,Men may follow and boys may lead."
Tightly each other's hand they pressed,Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;
"The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."
IIIThey ran to a sloop that lay near by;They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;
They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,And called for a crew of volunteers.
Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,And men came running from every side.
Curious armed were the dauntless ones,With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;
They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"
IVWith sails all set, trim as could be,The Margaretta stood out to sea.
With every man and boy in place,The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.
Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;
And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"
A sound of thunder, echoing wide,Came from the Margaretta's side;
A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,And one of the brave pursuers fell.
They aimed a gun at the schooner then,And sent the compliment back again;
He who at the helm of the schooner stood,Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.
VEach burning to pay a bloody debt,The crews of the hostile vessels met;
The Western nation now to be,Made her first fight upon the sea.
And not till forty men were slain,Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;
But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.
One of the youths, the deed to crown,Grasped the colors and pulled them down;
And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,The pine-tree flag of blue and white.
And the truth was shown, for the world to read,That men may follow and boys may lead.
Will Carleton.
In North Carolina, the men of Mecklenburg County met, May 31, and adopted their famous "Resolves," declaring that each provincial congress was invested with all legislative and executive powers for the government of the colonies, and should exercise them independently of Great Britain, until Parliament should resign its arbitrary pretensions. It was from these "Resolves" that the legend of the Mecklenburg "Declaration of Independence, said to have been signed May 20," originated.
In North Carolina, the men of Mecklenburg County met, May 31, and adopted their famous "Resolves," declaring that each provincial congress was invested with all legislative and executive powers for the government of the colonies, and should exercise them independently of Great Britain, until Parliament should resign its arbitrary pretensions. It was from these "Resolves" that the legend of the Mecklenburg "Declaration of Independence, said to have been signed May 20," originated.
THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION
[May 20, 1775]
Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,The men of Mecklenburg had metDetermined to be free,And crook no coward knee,Though Might in front and Treason at the backBrought death and ruin in their joint attack.The tyrant's heel was on the landWhen Polk convoked his gallant band,And told in words full strongThe bitter tale of wrong,Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:"We must be independent, or be slaves!"But, hark! What hurried rider, this,With jaded horse and garb amiss,Whose look some woe proclaims,Ere he his mission names?He rides amain from far-off Lexington,And tells the blood-red news of war begun!Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spokeThe wise bold words that aye invokeMen to defend the rightAnd scorn the despot's might;Until from all there rose the answering cry:"We will be independent, or we die."When Alexander called the vote,No dastard "nay's" discordant noteBroke on that holy air—For dastard none was there!But in prompt answer to their country's call,They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor—all!In solemn hush the people heard;With shout and cheer they caught the word:Independence! In that signWe grasp our right divine;For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hateMust yield to men who fight for God and State!The hero shout flew on the breeze;Rushed from the mountains to the seas;Till all the land uprose,Their faces to their foes,Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!And well those men maintained the right;They kept the faith, and fought the fight;Till Might and Treason bothFled fast before the oathWhich brought the God of Freedom's battles downTo place on patriot brows the victor's crown!William C. Elam.
Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,The men of Mecklenburg had metDetermined to be free,And crook no coward knee,Though Might in front and Treason at the backBrought death and ruin in their joint attack.The tyrant's heel was on the landWhen Polk convoked his gallant band,And told in words full strongThe bitter tale of wrong,Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:"We must be independent, or be slaves!"But, hark! What hurried rider, this,With jaded horse and garb amiss,Whose look some woe proclaims,Ere he his mission names?He rides amain from far-off Lexington,And tells the blood-red news of war begun!Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spokeThe wise bold words that aye invokeMen to defend the rightAnd scorn the despot's might;Until from all there rose the answering cry:"We will be independent, or we die."When Alexander called the vote,No dastard "nay's" discordant noteBroke on that holy air—For dastard none was there!But in prompt answer to their country's call,They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor—all!In solemn hush the people heard;With shout and cheer they caught the word:Independence! In that signWe grasp our right divine;For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hateMust yield to men who fight for God and State!The hero shout flew on the breeze;Rushed from the mountains to the seas;Till all the land uprose,Their faces to their foes,Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!And well those men maintained the right;They kept the faith, and fought the fight;Till Might and Treason bothFled fast before the oathWhich brought the God of Freedom's battles downTo place on patriot brows the victor's crown!William C. Elam.
Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,The men of Mecklenburg had metDetermined to be free,And crook no coward knee,Though Might in front and Treason at the backBrought death and ruin in their joint attack.
The tyrant's heel was on the landWhen Polk convoked his gallant band,And told in words full strongThe bitter tale of wrong,Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:"We must be independent, or be slaves!"
But, hark! What hurried rider, this,With jaded horse and garb amiss,Whose look some woe proclaims,Ere he his mission names?He rides amain from far-off Lexington,And tells the blood-red news of war begun!
Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spokeThe wise bold words that aye invokeMen to defend the rightAnd scorn the despot's might;Until from all there rose the answering cry:"We will be independent, or we die."
When Alexander called the vote,No dastard "nay's" discordant noteBroke on that holy air—For dastard none was there!But in prompt answer to their country's call,They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor—all!
In solemn hush the people heard;With shout and cheer they caught the word:Independence! In that signWe grasp our right divine;For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hateMust yield to men who fight for God and State!
The hero shout flew on the breeze;Rushed from the mountains to the seas;Till all the land uprose,Their faces to their foes,Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!
And well those men maintained the right;They kept the faith, and fought the fight;Till Might and Treason bothFled fast before the oathWhich brought the God of Freedom's battles downTo place on patriot brows the victor's crown!
William C. Elam.
Up and down the land, in every city, town, and hamlet, men were drilling—with brooms and corn-stalks, when no muskets were available. The storm, which had been gathering for years, had burst at last.
Up and down the land, in every city, town, and hamlet, men were drilling—with brooms and corn-stalks, when no muskets were available. The storm, which had been gathering for years, had burst at last.
A SONG
Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!To arms, my brave boys, and away:'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,And upbraids the too tedious delay.What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!The tyrants are seized on, they die!Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,Like men, we'll be joyful and gay—With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,And lose the fatigues of the day.'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,But oppression all happiness sours;It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,And strew the way over with flowers.Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775.
Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!To arms, my brave boys, and away:'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,And upbraids the too tedious delay.What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!The tyrants are seized on, they die!Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,Like men, we'll be joyful and gay—With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,And lose the fatigues of the day.'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,But oppression all happiness sours;It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,And strew the way over with flowers.Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775.
Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!To arms, my brave boys, and away:'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,And upbraids the too tedious delay.What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!The tyrants are seized on, they die!
Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,Like men, we'll be joyful and gay—With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,And lose the fatigues of the day.'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,But oppression all happiness sours;It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,And strew the way over with flowers.
Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775.
THE COLONISTS TAKE THE OFFENSIVE
A rustic army of nearly twenty thousand men quickly gathered about Boston to besiege Gage there; but its warlike spirit ran too high to be contented with passive and defensive measures. Benedict Arnold suggested that expeditions be sent against the fortresses at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which commanded the northern approach to the Hudson and were of great strategic importance. The suggestion was at once adopted. Arnold was created colonel and set out to raise a regiment among the Berkshire Hills. When he arrived there, he found that Ethan Allen had already raised a force of Vermonters and started for Ticonderoga.
A rustic army of nearly twenty thousand men quickly gathered about Boston to besiege Gage there; but its warlike spirit ran too high to be contented with passive and defensive measures. Benedict Arnold suggested that expeditions be sent against the fortresses at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which commanded the northern approach to the Hudson and were of great strategic importance. The suggestion was at once adopted. Arnold was created colonel and set out to raise a regiment among the Berkshire Hills. When he arrived there, he found that Ethan Allen had already raised a force of Vermonters and started for Ticonderoga.
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS
[May 9, 1775]
IHere halt we our march, and pitch our tentOn the rugged forest-ground,And light our fire with the branches rentBy winds from the beeches round.Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,But a wilder is at hand,With hail of iron and rain of blood,To sweep and waste the land.IIHow the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,That startle the sleeping bird!To-morrow eve must the voice be still,And the step must fall unheard.The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,In Ticonderoga's towers,And ere the sun rise twice again,Must they and the lake be ours.IIIFill up the bowl from the brook that glidesWhere the fire-flies light the brake;A ruddier juice the Briton hidesIn his fortress by the lake.Build high the fire, till the panther leapFrom his lofty perch in flight,And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleepFor the deeds of to-morrow night.William Cullen Bryant.
IHere halt we our march, and pitch our tentOn the rugged forest-ground,And light our fire with the branches rentBy winds from the beeches round.Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,But a wilder is at hand,With hail of iron and rain of blood,To sweep and waste the land.IIHow the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,That startle the sleeping bird!To-morrow eve must the voice be still,And the step must fall unheard.The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,In Ticonderoga's towers,And ere the sun rise twice again,Must they and the lake be ours.IIIFill up the bowl from the brook that glidesWhere the fire-flies light the brake;A ruddier juice the Briton hidesIn his fortress by the lake.Build high the fire, till the panther leapFrom his lofty perch in flight,And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleepFor the deeds of to-morrow night.William Cullen Bryant.
IHere halt we our march, and pitch our tentOn the rugged forest-ground,And light our fire with the branches rentBy winds from the beeches round.Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,But a wilder is at hand,With hail of iron and rain of blood,To sweep and waste the land.
IIHow the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,That startle the sleeping bird!To-morrow eve must the voice be still,And the step must fall unheard.The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,In Ticonderoga's towers,And ere the sun rise twice again,Must they and the lake be ours.
IIIFill up the bowl from the brook that glidesWhere the fire-flies light the brake;A ruddier juice the Briton hidesIn his fortress by the lake.Build high the fire, till the panther leapFrom his lofty perch in flight,And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleepFor the deeds of to-morrow night.
William Cullen Bryant.
Arnold overtook Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" on May 9, and accompanied the expedition as a volunteer. At daybreak of the 10th, Allen and Arnold, with eighty-three men, crossed Lake Champlain and entered Ticonderoga side by side. The garrison was completely surprised and surrendered the stronghold without a blow.
Arnold overtook Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" on May 9, and accompanied the expedition as a volunteer. At daybreak of the 10th, Allen and Arnold, with eighty-three men, crossed Lake Champlain and entered Ticonderoga side by side. The garrison was completely surprised and surrendered the stronghold without a blow.
THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA
[May 10, 1775]