In spite ofRice, in spite ofWheat,Sent for the Boston Poor—to eat:In spite ofBrandy, one would think,Sent for the Boston Poor—to drink:Poor are the Boston Poor, indeed,And needy, tho' there is no Need:They cry for Bread; the mighty OnesInstead ofBread, give onlyStones.Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, September 2, 1774.
In spite ofRice, in spite ofWheat,Sent for the Boston Poor—to eat:In spite ofBrandy, one would think,Sent for the Boston Poor—to drink:Poor are the Boston Poor, indeed,And needy, tho' there is no Need:They cry for Bread; the mighty OnesInstead ofBread, give onlyStones.Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, September 2, 1774.
In spite ofRice, in spite ofWheat,Sent for the Boston Poor—to eat:In spite ofBrandy, one would think,Sent for the Boston Poor—to drink:Poor are the Boston Poor, indeed,And needy, tho' there is no Need:They cry for Bread; the mighty OnesInstead ofBread, give onlyStones.
Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, September 2, 1774.
It was plain that, in this crisis, the colonies must stick together, and the proposal for a Continental Congress, first made by the Sons of Liberty in New York, was approved by colony after colony, and the Congress was finally called to meet at Philadelphia, September 1.
It was plain that, in this crisis, the colonies must stick together, and the proposal for a Continental Congress, first made by the Sons of Liberty in New York, was approved by colony after colony, and the Congress was finally called to meet at Philadelphia, September 1.
THE DAUGHTER'S REBELLION
When fair Columbia was a child,And mother Britain on her smil'dWith kind regard, and strok'd her head,And gave her dolls and gingerbread,And sugar plumbs, and many a toy,Which prompted gratitude and joy—Then a more duteous maid, I ween,Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green;Whate'er the mother said, approv'd,And with sincere affection lov'd—With reverence listen'd to her dreams,And bowed obsequious to her schemes—Barter'd the products of her garden,For trinkets, worth more than a farthing—And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd,She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd,Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath,Betoken'd her approaching death.But when at puberty arriv'd,Forgot the power in whom she liv'd,And 'gan to make preposterous splutter,'Bout spreading her own bread and butter,And stubbornly refus'd t' agree,In form, to drink her bohea-tea,And like a base, ungrateful daughter,Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water—'Bout writing paper made a pother,And dared to argue with her mother—Contended pertly, that the nurse,Should not be keeper of the purse;But that herself, now older grown,Would have a pocket of her own,In which the purse she would deposit,As safely as in nurse's closet.Francis Hopkinson.
When fair Columbia was a child,And mother Britain on her smil'dWith kind regard, and strok'd her head,And gave her dolls and gingerbread,And sugar plumbs, and many a toy,Which prompted gratitude and joy—Then a more duteous maid, I ween,Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green;Whate'er the mother said, approv'd,And with sincere affection lov'd—With reverence listen'd to her dreams,And bowed obsequious to her schemes—Barter'd the products of her garden,For trinkets, worth more than a farthing—And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd,She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd,Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath,Betoken'd her approaching death.But when at puberty arriv'd,Forgot the power in whom she liv'd,And 'gan to make preposterous splutter,'Bout spreading her own bread and butter,And stubbornly refus'd t' agree,In form, to drink her bohea-tea,And like a base, ungrateful daughter,Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water—'Bout writing paper made a pother,And dared to argue with her mother—Contended pertly, that the nurse,Should not be keeper of the purse;But that herself, now older grown,Would have a pocket of her own,In which the purse she would deposit,As safely as in nurse's closet.Francis Hopkinson.
When fair Columbia was a child,And mother Britain on her smil'dWith kind regard, and strok'd her head,And gave her dolls and gingerbread,And sugar plumbs, and many a toy,Which prompted gratitude and joy—Then a more duteous maid, I ween,Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green;Whate'er the mother said, approv'd,And with sincere affection lov'd—With reverence listen'd to her dreams,And bowed obsequious to her schemes—Barter'd the products of her garden,For trinkets, worth more than a farthing—And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd,She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd,Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath,Betoken'd her approaching death.But when at puberty arriv'd,Forgot the power in whom she liv'd,And 'gan to make preposterous splutter,'Bout spreading her own bread and butter,And stubbornly refus'd t' agree,In form, to drink her bohea-tea,And like a base, ungrateful daughter,Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water—'Bout writing paper made a pother,And dared to argue with her mother—Contended pertly, that the nurse,Should not be keeper of the purse;But that herself, now older grown,Would have a pocket of her own,In which the purse she would deposit,As safely as in nurse's closet.
Francis Hopkinson.
The Whig papers generally at this time adopted for a headpiece a snake broken into parts representing the several colonies, with the motto, "Unite or Die."
The Whig papers generally at this time adopted for a headpiece a snake broken into parts representing the several colonies, with the motto, "Unite or Die."
ON THE SNAKE
DEPICTED AT THE HEAD OF SOME AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS
Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to passThat America's typ'd by a Snake—in the grass?Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection,That merits the soundest, severest correction?New-England's the Head, too;—New-England's abus'd,For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.From Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, August 25, 1774.
Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to passThat America's typ'd by a Snake—in the grass?Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection,That merits the soundest, severest correction?New-England's the Head, too;—New-England's abus'd,For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.From Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, August 25, 1774.
Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to passThat America's typ'd by a Snake—in the grass?Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection,That merits the soundest, severest correction?New-England's the Head, too;—New-England's abus'd,For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.
From Rivington'sNew York Gazetteer, August 25, 1774.
The feeling of the entire country was aptly voiced in "Free America," which appeared at that time, and which was ascribed to Dr. Joseph Warren.
The feeling of the entire country was aptly voiced in "Free America," which appeared at that time, and which was ascribed to Dr. Joseph Warren.
FREE AMERICA
[1774]
That seat of Science, Athens,And earth's proud mistress, Rome;Where now are all their glories?We scarce can find a tomb.Then guard your rights, Americans,Nor stoop to lawless sway;Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose,For North America.We led fair Freedom hither,And lo, the desert smiled!A paradise of pleasureWas opened in the wild!Your harvest, bold Americans,No power shall snatch away!Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Torn from a world of tyrants,Beneath this western sky,We formed a new dominion,A land of liberty:The world shall own we're masters here;Then hasten on the day:Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Proud Albion bowed to Cæsar,And numerous lords before;To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,And many masters more:But we can boast, Americans,We've never fallen a prey;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.God bless this maiden climate,And through its vast domainMay hosts of heroes cluster,Who scorn to wear a chain:And blast the venal sycophantThat dares our rights betray;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Lift up your hands, ye heroes,And swear with proud disdain,The wretch that would ensnare you,Shall lay his snares in vain:Should Europe empty all her force,We'll meet her in array,And fight and shout, and shout and fightFor North America.Some future day shall crown us,The masters of the main,Our fleets shall speak in thunderTo England, France, and Spain;And the nations over the ocean spreadShall tremble and obeyThe sons, the sons, the sons, the sonsOf brave America.Joseph Warren.
That seat of Science, Athens,And earth's proud mistress, Rome;Where now are all their glories?We scarce can find a tomb.Then guard your rights, Americans,Nor stoop to lawless sway;Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose,For North America.We led fair Freedom hither,And lo, the desert smiled!A paradise of pleasureWas opened in the wild!Your harvest, bold Americans,No power shall snatch away!Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Torn from a world of tyrants,Beneath this western sky,We formed a new dominion,A land of liberty:The world shall own we're masters here;Then hasten on the day:Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Proud Albion bowed to Cæsar,And numerous lords before;To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,And many masters more:But we can boast, Americans,We've never fallen a prey;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.God bless this maiden climate,And through its vast domainMay hosts of heroes cluster,Who scorn to wear a chain:And blast the venal sycophantThat dares our rights betray;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.Lift up your hands, ye heroes,And swear with proud disdain,The wretch that would ensnare you,Shall lay his snares in vain:Should Europe empty all her force,We'll meet her in array,And fight and shout, and shout and fightFor North America.Some future day shall crown us,The masters of the main,Our fleets shall speak in thunderTo England, France, and Spain;And the nations over the ocean spreadShall tremble and obeyThe sons, the sons, the sons, the sonsOf brave America.Joseph Warren.
That seat of Science, Athens,And earth's proud mistress, Rome;Where now are all their glories?We scarce can find a tomb.Then guard your rights, Americans,Nor stoop to lawless sway;Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose,For North America.
We led fair Freedom hither,And lo, the desert smiled!A paradise of pleasureWas opened in the wild!Your harvest, bold Americans,No power shall snatch away!Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.
Torn from a world of tyrants,Beneath this western sky,We formed a new dominion,A land of liberty:The world shall own we're masters here;Then hasten on the day:Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.
Proud Albion bowed to Cæsar,And numerous lords before;To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,And many masters more:But we can boast, Americans,We've never fallen a prey;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.
God bless this maiden climate,And through its vast domainMay hosts of heroes cluster,Who scorn to wear a chain:And blast the venal sycophantThat dares our rights betray;Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,For free America.
Lift up your hands, ye heroes,And swear with proud disdain,The wretch that would ensnare you,Shall lay his snares in vain:Should Europe empty all her force,We'll meet her in array,And fight and shout, and shout and fightFor North America.
Some future day shall crown us,The masters of the main,Our fleets shall speak in thunderTo England, France, and Spain;And the nations over the ocean spreadShall tremble and obeyThe sons, the sons, the sons, the sonsOf brave America.
Joseph Warren.
The Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia, September 5, 1774, and, after four weeks' deliberation, agreed upon a declaration of rights, claiming for the American people the right of free legislation and calling for the repeal of eleven acts of Parliament.
The Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia, September 5, 1774, and, after four weeks' deliberation, agreed upon a declaration of rights, claiming for the American people the right of free legislation and calling for the repeal of eleven acts of Parliament.
LIBERTY TREE
In a chariot of light from the regions of day,The Goddess of Liberty came;Ten thousand celestials directed the wayAnd hither conducted the dame.A fair budding branch from the gardens above,Where millions with millions agree,She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,And the plant she namedLiberty Tree.The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,Like a native it flourished and bore;The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,To seek out this peaceable shore.Unmindful of names or distinction they came,For freemen like brothers agree;With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,And their temple wasLiberty Tree.Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,Their bread in contentment they ate,Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,The cares of the grand and the great.With timber and tar they Old England supplied,And supported her power on the sea;Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,For the honor ofLiberty Tree.But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,How all the tyrannical powers,Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain,To cut down this guardian of ours;From the east to the west blow the trumpet to armsThrough the land let the sound of it flee,Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,In defence of ourLiberty Tree.Thomas Paine.Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.
In a chariot of light from the regions of day,The Goddess of Liberty came;Ten thousand celestials directed the wayAnd hither conducted the dame.A fair budding branch from the gardens above,Where millions with millions agree,She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,And the plant she namedLiberty Tree.The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,Like a native it flourished and bore;The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,To seek out this peaceable shore.Unmindful of names or distinction they came,For freemen like brothers agree;With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,And their temple wasLiberty Tree.Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,Their bread in contentment they ate,Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,The cares of the grand and the great.With timber and tar they Old England supplied,And supported her power on the sea;Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,For the honor ofLiberty Tree.But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,How all the tyrannical powers,Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain,To cut down this guardian of ours;From the east to the west blow the trumpet to armsThrough the land let the sound of it flee,Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,In defence of ourLiberty Tree.Thomas Paine.Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.
In a chariot of light from the regions of day,The Goddess of Liberty came;Ten thousand celestials directed the wayAnd hither conducted the dame.A fair budding branch from the gardens above,Where millions with millions agree,She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,And the plant she namedLiberty Tree.
The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,Like a native it flourished and bore;The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,To seek out this peaceable shore.Unmindful of names or distinction they came,For freemen like brothers agree;With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,And their temple wasLiberty Tree.
Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,Their bread in contentment they ate,Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,The cares of the grand and the great.With timber and tar they Old England supplied,And supported her power on the sea;Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,For the honor ofLiberty Tree.
But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,How all the tyrannical powers,Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain,To cut down this guardian of ours;From the east to the west blow the trumpet to armsThrough the land let the sound of it flee,Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,In defence of ourLiberty Tree.
Thomas Paine.
Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.
The duty of presenting to the British government the Declaration of Rights prepared by the Congress devolved upon Benjamin Franklin, who was in England at the time. Lord Dartmouth received the document, but permission was refused Franklin to present the case for the Continental Congress, and to defend it, before the House of Commons.
The duty of presenting to the British government the Declaration of Rights prepared by the Congress devolved upon Benjamin Franklin, who was in England at the time. Lord Dartmouth received the document, but permission was refused Franklin to present the case for the Continental Congress, and to defend it, before the House of Commons.
THE MOTHER COUNTRY
[1775]
We have an old mother that peevish is grown;She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;Which nobody, etc.Her orders so odd are, we often suspectThat age has impaired her sound intellect;But still an old mother should have due respect;Which nobody, etc.Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;But why should we bear the abuse of her man?When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;Which nobody, etc.Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divideThe sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;Which nobody, etc.We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all thoseWho, to get what she has, will be often her foes;For we know it must all be our own, when she goes;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.Benjamin Franklin.
We have an old mother that peevish is grown;She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;Which nobody, etc.Her orders so odd are, we often suspectThat age has impaired her sound intellect;But still an old mother should have due respect;Which nobody, etc.Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;But why should we bear the abuse of her man?When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;Which nobody, etc.Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divideThe sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;Which nobody, etc.We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all thoseWho, to get what she has, will be often her foes;For we know it must all be our own, when she goes;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.Benjamin Franklin.
We have an old mother that peevish is grown;She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.
If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;Which nobody, etc.
Her orders so odd are, we often suspectThat age has impaired her sound intellect;But still an old mother should have due respect;Which nobody, etc.
Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;But why should we bear the abuse of her man?When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;Which nobody, etc.
Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divideThe sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;Which nobody, etc.
We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all thoseWho, to get what she has, will be often her foes;For we know it must all be our own, when she goes;Which nobody can deny, deny,Which nobody can deny.
Benjamin Franklin.
Very few Englishmen believed that the Americans would fight. Lord Sandwich said that they were a lot of undisciplined cowards, who would take to their heels at the first sound of a cannon, and that it would be easy to frighten them into submission. The "Pennsylvania Song" was evidently written to answer this assertion.
Very few Englishmen believed that the Americans would fight. Lord Sandwich said that they were a lot of undisciplined cowards, who would take to their heels at the first sound of a cannon, and that it would be easy to frighten them into submission. The "Pennsylvania Song" was evidently written to answer this assertion.
PENNSYLVANIA SONG
We are the troop that ne'er will stoopTo wretched slavery,Nor shall our seed, by our base deed,Despisèd vassals be;Freedom we will bequeath to them,Or we will bravely die;Our greatest foe, ere long shall know,How much did Sandwich lie.And all the world shall know,Americans are free;Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove,Great Britain soon shall see.We'll not give up our birthright,Our foes shall find us men;As good as they, in any shape,The British troops shall ken.Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat themOn any hostile plain;For Freedom, wives, and children dear,The battle we'll maintain.And all the world, etc.What! can those British tyrants think,Our fathers cross'd the main,And savage foes, and dangers met,To be enslav'd by them?If so, they are mistaken,For we will rather die;And since they have become our foes,Their forces we defy.And all the world, etc.Dunlap'sPacket, 1775.
We are the troop that ne'er will stoopTo wretched slavery,Nor shall our seed, by our base deed,Despisèd vassals be;Freedom we will bequeath to them,Or we will bravely die;Our greatest foe, ere long shall know,How much did Sandwich lie.And all the world shall know,Americans are free;Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove,Great Britain soon shall see.We'll not give up our birthright,Our foes shall find us men;As good as they, in any shape,The British troops shall ken.Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat themOn any hostile plain;For Freedom, wives, and children dear,The battle we'll maintain.And all the world, etc.What! can those British tyrants think,Our fathers cross'd the main,And savage foes, and dangers met,To be enslav'd by them?If so, they are mistaken,For we will rather die;And since they have become our foes,Their forces we defy.And all the world, etc.Dunlap'sPacket, 1775.
We are the troop that ne'er will stoopTo wretched slavery,Nor shall our seed, by our base deed,Despisèd vassals be;Freedom we will bequeath to them,Or we will bravely die;Our greatest foe, ere long shall know,How much did Sandwich lie.And all the world shall know,Americans are free;Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove,Great Britain soon shall see.
We'll not give up our birthright,Our foes shall find us men;As good as they, in any shape,The British troops shall ken.Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat themOn any hostile plain;For Freedom, wives, and children dear,The battle we'll maintain.And all the world, etc.
What! can those British tyrants think,Our fathers cross'd the main,And savage foes, and dangers met,To be enslav'd by them?If so, they are mistaken,For we will rather die;And since they have become our foes,Their forces we defy.And all the world, etc.
Dunlap'sPacket, 1775.
About the middle of December, 1774, deputies appointed by the freemen of Maryland met at Annapolis, and unanimously resolved to resist the attempts of Parliament to tax the colonies and to support the acts of the Continental Congress. They also recommended that every man should provide himself with "a good firelock, with bayonet attached, powder and ball," to be in readiness to act in any emergency.
About the middle of December, 1774, deputies appointed by the freemen of Maryland met at Annapolis, and unanimously resolved to resist the attempts of Parliament to tax the colonies and to support the acts of the Continental Congress. They also recommended that every man should provide himself with "a good firelock, with bayonet attached, powder and ball," to be in readiness to act in any emergency.
MARYLAND RESOLVES
[December, 1774]
On Calvert's plains new faction reigns,Great Britain we defy, sir,True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains,Though freedom is the cry, sir.The Congress, and their factious tools,Most wantonly oppress us,Hypocrisy triumphant rules,And sorely does distress us.The British bands with glory crown'd,No longer shall withstand us;Our martial deeds loud fame shall soundSince mad Lee now commands us.Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike,That all the world shall awe, sir,And General Gage, Sir Perseus like,Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir.When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men,Our race meant to extermine,Pray did committees save us then,Or Hancock, or such vermin?Then faction spurn! think for yourselves!Your parent state, believe me,From real griefs, from factious elves,Will speedily relieve ye.Rivington'sGazetteer.
On Calvert's plains new faction reigns,Great Britain we defy, sir,True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains,Though freedom is the cry, sir.The Congress, and their factious tools,Most wantonly oppress us,Hypocrisy triumphant rules,And sorely does distress us.The British bands with glory crown'd,No longer shall withstand us;Our martial deeds loud fame shall soundSince mad Lee now commands us.Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike,That all the world shall awe, sir,And General Gage, Sir Perseus like,Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir.When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men,Our race meant to extermine,Pray did committees save us then,Or Hancock, or such vermin?Then faction spurn! think for yourselves!Your parent state, believe me,From real griefs, from factious elves,Will speedily relieve ye.Rivington'sGazetteer.
On Calvert's plains new faction reigns,Great Britain we defy, sir,True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains,Though freedom is the cry, sir.
The Congress, and their factious tools,Most wantonly oppress us,Hypocrisy triumphant rules,And sorely does distress us.
The British bands with glory crown'd,No longer shall withstand us;Our martial deeds loud fame shall soundSince mad Lee now commands us.
Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike,That all the world shall awe, sir,And General Gage, Sir Perseus like,Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir.
When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men,Our race meant to extermine,Pray did committees save us then,Or Hancock, or such vermin?
Then faction spurn! think for yourselves!Your parent state, believe me,From real griefs, from factious elves,Will speedily relieve ye.
Rivington'sGazetteer.
Such effusions as the "Massachusetts Liberty Song" became immensely popular, and bands of liberty-loving souls met nightly to sing them.
Such effusions as the "Massachusetts Liberty Song" became immensely popular, and bands of liberty-loving souls met nightly to sing them.
MASSACHUSETTS SONG OF LIBERTY
Come swallow your bumpers, yeTories, and roarThat the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more;But know that noCut-throatsour spirits can tame,Nor a host ofOppressorsshall smother the flame.In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave,Will never surrender,But swear to defend her,And scorn to survive, if unable to save.Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear,Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;Through deaths and through dangers theirTrophiesthey won,We dare be theirRivals, nor will be outdone.In Freedom we're born, etc.Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,Encroach on ourRights, and makeFreedomtheir prize;The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep.In Freedom we're born, etc.The tree which proudHamanforMordecairear'dStands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared;Thatrogues, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain,Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again.In Freedom we're born, etc.Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall knowThose who dare to be free shall forever be so;On these arms and these hearts they may safely relyFor in freedom we'll live, or likeHeroeswe'll die.In Freedom we're born, etc.Ye insolentTyrants! who wish to enthrall;YeMinions, yePlacemen,Pimps,Pensioners, all;How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust,Your honor must wither and nod to the dust.In Freedom we're born, etc.When oppress'd and approach'd, ourKingwe implore,Still firmly persuaded ourRightshe'll restore;When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right,Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight.In Freedom we're born, etc.Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a frayCould make us submit to their chains for a day;Withheld by affection, onBritonswe call,Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall.In Freedom we're born, etc.All ages should speak with amaze and applauseOf the prudence we show in support of our cause:Assured of our safety, aBrunswickstill reigns,Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains.In Freedom we're born, etc.Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall;Has the land such a dastard as scorns not aLord,Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword?In Freedom we're born, etc.Attributed toMrs. Mercy Warren.
Come swallow your bumpers, yeTories, and roarThat the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more;But know that noCut-throatsour spirits can tame,Nor a host ofOppressorsshall smother the flame.In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave,Will never surrender,But swear to defend her,And scorn to survive, if unable to save.Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear,Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;Through deaths and through dangers theirTrophiesthey won,We dare be theirRivals, nor will be outdone.In Freedom we're born, etc.Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,Encroach on ourRights, and makeFreedomtheir prize;The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep.In Freedom we're born, etc.The tree which proudHamanforMordecairear'dStands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared;Thatrogues, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain,Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again.In Freedom we're born, etc.Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall knowThose who dare to be free shall forever be so;On these arms and these hearts they may safely relyFor in freedom we'll live, or likeHeroeswe'll die.In Freedom we're born, etc.Ye insolentTyrants! who wish to enthrall;YeMinions, yePlacemen,Pimps,Pensioners, all;How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust,Your honor must wither and nod to the dust.In Freedom we're born, etc.When oppress'd and approach'd, ourKingwe implore,Still firmly persuaded ourRightshe'll restore;When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right,Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight.In Freedom we're born, etc.Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a frayCould make us submit to their chains for a day;Withheld by affection, onBritonswe call,Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall.In Freedom we're born, etc.All ages should speak with amaze and applauseOf the prudence we show in support of our cause:Assured of our safety, aBrunswickstill reigns,Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains.In Freedom we're born, etc.Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall;Has the land such a dastard as scorns not aLord,Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword?In Freedom we're born, etc.Attributed toMrs. Mercy Warren.
Come swallow your bumpers, yeTories, and roarThat the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more;But know that noCut-throatsour spirits can tame,Nor a host ofOppressorsshall smother the flame.In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave,Will never surrender,But swear to defend her,And scorn to survive, if unable to save.
Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear,Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;Through deaths and through dangers theirTrophiesthey won,We dare be theirRivals, nor will be outdone.In Freedom we're born, etc.
Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,Encroach on ourRights, and makeFreedomtheir prize;The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep.In Freedom we're born, etc.
The tree which proudHamanforMordecairear'dStands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared;Thatrogues, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain,Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again.In Freedom we're born, etc.
Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall knowThose who dare to be free shall forever be so;On these arms and these hearts they may safely relyFor in freedom we'll live, or likeHeroeswe'll die.In Freedom we're born, etc.
Ye insolentTyrants! who wish to enthrall;YeMinions, yePlacemen,Pimps,Pensioners, all;How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust,Your honor must wither and nod to the dust.In Freedom we're born, etc.
When oppress'd and approach'd, ourKingwe implore,Still firmly persuaded ourRightshe'll restore;When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right,Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight.In Freedom we're born, etc.
Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a frayCould make us submit to their chains for a day;Withheld by affection, onBritonswe call,Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall.In Freedom we're born, etc.
All ages should speak with amaze and applauseOf the prudence we show in support of our cause:Assured of our safety, aBrunswickstill reigns,Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains.In Freedom we're born, etc.
Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall;Has the land such a dastard as scorns not aLord,Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword?In Freedom we're born, etc.
Attributed toMrs. Mercy Warren.
EPIGRAM
Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger,Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her.Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aidAnd give Master John a severe bastinade.Now, good men of the law, who is at fault,The one who begins or resists the assault?Anderson'sConstitutional Gazette, 1775.
Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger,Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her.Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aidAnd give Master John a severe bastinade.Now, good men of the law, who is at fault,The one who begins or resists the assault?Anderson'sConstitutional Gazette, 1775.
Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger,Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her.Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aidAnd give Master John a severe bastinade.Now, good men of the law, who is at fault,The one who begins or resists the assault?
Anderson'sConstitutional Gazette, 1775.
TO THE BOSTON WOMEN
O Boston wives and maids, draw near and seeOur delicate Souchong and Hyson tea,Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown,If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town.St. James Chronicle.
O Boston wives and maids, draw near and seeOur delicate Souchong and Hyson tea,Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown,If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town.St. James Chronicle.
O Boston wives and maids, draw near and seeOur delicate Souchong and Hyson tea,Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown,If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town.
St. James Chronicle.
It was evident that, in the excited state of the country, a single incident might turn the balance between peace and war and produce a general explosion. That incident was not long in coming.
It was evident that, in the excited state of the country, a single incident might turn the balance between peace and war and produce a general explosion. That incident was not long in coming.
"PROPHECY"
[1774]
Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat,Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,But wealth and power have no immortal day,For all things ripen only to decay.And when that time arrives, the lot of all,When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall;Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decreeIn other worlds another Britain see,And what thou art, America shall be.Gulian Verplanck.
Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat,Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,But wealth and power have no immortal day,For all things ripen only to decay.And when that time arrives, the lot of all,When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall;Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decreeIn other worlds another Britain see,And what thou art, America shall be.Gulian Verplanck.
Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat,Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,But wealth and power have no immortal day,For all things ripen only to decay.And when that time arrives, the lot of all,When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall;Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decreeIn other worlds another Britain see,And what thou art, America shall be.
Gulian Verplanck.
THE BURSTING OF THE STORM
All through the winter of 1774-75, the people of Massachusetts had offered a passive but effective resistance to General Gage. Not a councillor, judge, sheriff, or juryman could be found to serve under the royal commission; and for nine months the ordinary functions of government were suspended. At eventide, on every village-green, a company of yeomen drilled, and a supply of powder and ball was gradually collected at Concord; but every man in the province was given to understand that England must fire the first shot. At the beginning of spring, Gage received peremptory orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock, and send them to England to be tried for treason. He learned that they would be at a friend's house at Lexington, during the middle of April, and on the night of April 18 dispatched a force of eight hundred men to seize them, and then to proceed to Concord and destroy the military stores collected there. Although the movement was conducted with the greatest secrecy, Joseph Warren divined its purpose, and sent out Paul Revere by way of Charlestown to give the alarm.
All through the winter of 1774-75, the people of Massachusetts had offered a passive but effective resistance to General Gage. Not a councillor, judge, sheriff, or juryman could be found to serve under the royal commission; and for nine months the ordinary functions of government were suspended. At eventide, on every village-green, a company of yeomen drilled, and a supply of powder and ball was gradually collected at Concord; but every man in the province was given to understand that England must fire the first shot. At the beginning of spring, Gage received peremptory orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock, and send them to England to be tried for treason. He learned that they would be at a friend's house at Lexington, during the middle of April, and on the night of April 18 dispatched a force of eight hundred men to seize them, and then to proceed to Concord and destroy the military stores collected there. Although the movement was conducted with the greatest secrecy, Joseph Warren divined its purpose, and sent out Paul Revere by way of Charlestown to give the alarm.
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
[April 18-19, 1775]
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.It was twelve by the village clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
At the same time Warren dispatched William Dawes by way of Roxbury; but though Dawes played an important part in the events of the night, his exploits have been completely overshadowed in the popular imagination by those of the other courier.
At the same time Warren dispatched William Dawes by way of Roxbury; but though Dawes played an important part in the events of the night, his exploits have been completely overshadowed in the popular imagination by those of the other courier.
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
I am a wandering, bitter shade;Never of me was a hero made;Poets have never sung my praise,Nobody crowned my brow with bays;And if you ask me the fatal cause,I answer only, "My name was Dawes."'Tis all very well for the children to hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere;But why should my name be quite forgot,Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?Why should I ask? The reason is clear—My name was Dawes and his Revere.When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,Paul Revere was waiting about,But I was already on my way.The shadows of night fell cold and grayAs I rode, with never a break or pause;But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?History rings with his silvery name;Closed to me are the portals of fame.Had he been Dawes and I Revere,No one had heard of him, I fear.No one has heard of me becauseHe was Revere and I was Dawes.Helen F. More.
I am a wandering, bitter shade;Never of me was a hero made;Poets have never sung my praise,Nobody crowned my brow with bays;And if you ask me the fatal cause,I answer only, "My name was Dawes."'Tis all very well for the children to hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere;But why should my name be quite forgot,Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?Why should I ask? The reason is clear—My name was Dawes and his Revere.When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,Paul Revere was waiting about,But I was already on my way.The shadows of night fell cold and grayAs I rode, with never a break or pause;But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?History rings with his silvery name;Closed to me are the portals of fame.Had he been Dawes and I Revere,No one had heard of him, I fear.No one has heard of me becauseHe was Revere and I was Dawes.Helen F. More.
I am a wandering, bitter shade;Never of me was a hero made;Poets have never sung my praise,Nobody crowned my brow with bays;And if you ask me the fatal cause,I answer only, "My name was Dawes."
'Tis all very well for the children to hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere;But why should my name be quite forgot,Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?Why should I ask? The reason is clear—My name was Dawes and his Revere.
When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,Paul Revere was waiting about,But I was already on my way.The shadows of night fell cold and grayAs I rode, with never a break or pause;But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?
History rings with his silvery name;Closed to me are the portals of fame.Had he been Dawes and I Revere,No one had heard of him, I fear.No one has heard of me becauseHe was Revere and I was Dawes.
Helen F. More.
Revere galloped at top speed to Lexington, and warned Hancock and Adams, who left the town shortly before daybreak. Meanwhile the minute-men of the village had gathered, and the vanguard of the English column was confronted by about fifty colonials under command of Captain John Parker. The British commander, Major Pitcairn, ordered them to disperse, and as they stood motionless, he gave the order to fire. His men hesitated, but he discharged his own pistol and repeated the order, whereupon a deadly volley killed eight of the minute-men and wounded ten. A moment later, the main body of the British came up, and Parker, seeing the folly of resistance, ordered his men to retire.
Revere galloped at top speed to Lexington, and warned Hancock and Adams, who left the town shortly before daybreak. Meanwhile the minute-men of the village had gathered, and the vanguard of the English column was confronted by about fifty colonials under command of Captain John Parker. The British commander, Major Pitcairn, ordered them to disperse, and as they stood motionless, he gave the order to fire. His men hesitated, but he discharged his own pistol and repeated the order, whereupon a deadly volley killed eight of the minute-men and wounded ten. A moment later, the main body of the British came up, and Parker, seeing the folly of resistance, ordered his men to retire.
LEXINGTON[3]
[April 19, 1775]
From "Psalm of the West"
O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:Climb, patriot, through the April dark.O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,Thou budding star in the April night,For never a star more news hath told,Or later flame in heaven shall hold.Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,When that thy church hath had her hour,Still from the top of Reverence highShalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;For, statured large o'er town and tree,Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,And, dim as now thy wick may shine,The Future lights his lamp at thine.Now haste thee while the way is clear,Paul Revere!Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!To Lexington.Then Devens lookedand saw the light:He got him forth into the night,And watched alone on the river-shore,And marked the British ferrying o'er.John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:The Morning comes ere darkness goes.Have forth and call the yeomen out,For somewhere, somewhere close aboutFull soon a Thing must come to beThine honest eyes shall stare to see—Full soon before thy patriot eyesFreedom from out of a Wound shall rise.Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!Bring all the men of Lincoln here;Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,Let Acton, Bedford, hither file—Oh hither file, and plainly seeOut of a wound leap Liberty.Say, Woodman April! all in green,Say, Robin April! hast thou seenIn all thy travel round the earthEver a morn of calmer birth?But Morning's eye alone sereneCan gaze across yon village-greenTo where the trooping British runThrough Lexington.Good men in fustian, stand ye still;The men in red come o'er the hill.Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!cryThe men in red full haughtily.But never a grounding gun is heard;The men in fustian stand unstirred;Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebirdPuts in his little heavenly word.O men in red! if ye but knewThe half as much as bluebirds do,Now in this little tender calmEach hand would out, and every palmWith patriot palm strike brotherhood's strokeOr ere these lines of battle broke.O men in red! if ye but knewThe least of the all that bluebirds do,Now in this little godly calmYon voice might sing the Future's Psalm—The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyesWho pardons and is very wise—Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,Fire!The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:The homespuns' anxious voices call,Brother, art hurt?andWhere hit, John?And,Wipe this blood, and,Men, come on,And,Neighbor, do but lift my head,And,Who is wounded? Who is dead?Seven are killed. My God! my God!Seven lie dead on the village sod.Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,Monroe and Porter,—these are down.Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.He lies at the step of his own house-door;He crawls and makes a path of gore.The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.But, O ye Six that round him layAnd bloodied up that April day!As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell—At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;As Harrington came, ye likewise cameAnd died at the door of your House of Fame.Sidney Lanier.
O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:Climb, patriot, through the April dark.O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,Thou budding star in the April night,For never a star more news hath told,Or later flame in heaven shall hold.Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,When that thy church hath had her hour,Still from the top of Reverence highShalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;For, statured large o'er town and tree,Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,And, dim as now thy wick may shine,The Future lights his lamp at thine.Now haste thee while the way is clear,Paul Revere!Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!To Lexington.Then Devens lookedand saw the light:He got him forth into the night,And watched alone on the river-shore,And marked the British ferrying o'er.John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:The Morning comes ere darkness goes.Have forth and call the yeomen out,For somewhere, somewhere close aboutFull soon a Thing must come to beThine honest eyes shall stare to see—Full soon before thy patriot eyesFreedom from out of a Wound shall rise.Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!Bring all the men of Lincoln here;Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,Let Acton, Bedford, hither file—Oh hither file, and plainly seeOut of a wound leap Liberty.Say, Woodman April! all in green,Say, Robin April! hast thou seenIn all thy travel round the earthEver a morn of calmer birth?But Morning's eye alone sereneCan gaze across yon village-greenTo where the trooping British runThrough Lexington.Good men in fustian, stand ye still;The men in red come o'er the hill.Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!cryThe men in red full haughtily.But never a grounding gun is heard;The men in fustian stand unstirred;Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebirdPuts in his little heavenly word.O men in red! if ye but knewThe half as much as bluebirds do,Now in this little tender calmEach hand would out, and every palmWith patriot palm strike brotherhood's strokeOr ere these lines of battle broke.O men in red! if ye but knewThe least of the all that bluebirds do,Now in this little godly calmYon voice might sing the Future's Psalm—The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyesWho pardons and is very wise—Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,Fire!The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:The homespuns' anxious voices call,Brother, art hurt?andWhere hit, John?And,Wipe this blood, and,Men, come on,And,Neighbor, do but lift my head,And,Who is wounded? Who is dead?Seven are killed. My God! my God!Seven lie dead on the village sod.Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,Monroe and Porter,—these are down.Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.He lies at the step of his own house-door;He crawls and makes a path of gore.The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.But, O ye Six that round him layAnd bloodied up that April day!As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell—At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;As Harrington came, ye likewise cameAnd died at the door of your House of Fame.Sidney Lanier.
O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:Climb, patriot, through the April dark.O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,Thou budding star in the April night,For never a star more news hath told,Or later flame in heaven shall hold.Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,When that thy church hath had her hour,Still from the top of Reverence highShalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;For, statured large o'er town and tree,Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,And, dim as now thy wick may shine,The Future lights his lamp at thine.
Now haste thee while the way is clear,Paul Revere!Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!To Lexington.
Then Devens lookedand saw the light:He got him forth into the night,And watched alone on the river-shore,And marked the British ferrying o'er.
John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:The Morning comes ere darkness goes.Have forth and call the yeomen out,For somewhere, somewhere close aboutFull soon a Thing must come to beThine honest eyes shall stare to see—Full soon before thy patriot eyesFreedom from out of a Wound shall rise.
Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!Bring all the men of Lincoln here;Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,Let Acton, Bedford, hither file—Oh hither file, and plainly seeOut of a wound leap Liberty.Say, Woodman April! all in green,Say, Robin April! hast thou seenIn all thy travel round the earthEver a morn of calmer birth?But Morning's eye alone sereneCan gaze across yon village-greenTo where the trooping British runThrough Lexington.
Good men in fustian, stand ye still;The men in red come o'er the hill.Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!cryThe men in red full haughtily.But never a grounding gun is heard;The men in fustian stand unstirred;Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebirdPuts in his little heavenly word.O men in red! if ye but knewThe half as much as bluebirds do,Now in this little tender calmEach hand would out, and every palmWith patriot palm strike brotherhood's strokeOr ere these lines of battle broke.
O men in red! if ye but knewThe least of the all that bluebirds do,Now in this little godly calmYon voice might sing the Future's Psalm—The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyesWho pardons and is very wise—Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,Fire!The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:The homespuns' anxious voices call,Brother, art hurt?andWhere hit, John?And,Wipe this blood, and,Men, come on,And,Neighbor, do but lift my head,And,Who is wounded? Who is dead?Seven are killed. My God! my God!Seven lie dead on the village sod.Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,Monroe and Porter,—these are down.Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.He lies at the step of his own house-door;He crawls and makes a path of gore.The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.
But, O ye Six that round him layAnd bloodied up that April day!As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell—At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;As Harrington came, ye likewise cameAnd died at the door of your House of Fame.
Sidney Lanier.
LEXINGTON
[April 19, 1775]
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.Waving her golden veilOver the silent dale,Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;Hushed was his parting sigh,While from his noble eyeFlashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springingCalmly the first-born of glory have met;Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!Faint is the feeble breath,Murmuring low in death,"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"Nerveless the iron hand,Raised for its native land,Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,Circles the beat of the mustering drum.Fast on the soldier's pathDarken the waves of wrath,—Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;Red glares the musket's flash,Sharp rings the rifle's crash,Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,Never to shadow his cold brow again;Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;Pale is the lip of scorn,Voiceless the trumpet horn,Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;Many a belted breastLow on the turf shall restEre the dark hunters the herd have passed by.Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;Far as the tempest thrillsOver the darkened hills,Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,Roused by the tyrant band,Woke all the mighty land,Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,While o'er their ashes the starry fold flyingWraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.Borne on her Northern pine,Long o'er the foaming brineSpread her broad banner to storm and to sun;Heaven keep her ever free,Wide as o'er land and seaFloats the fair emblem her heroes have won!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.Waving her golden veilOver the silent dale,Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;Hushed was his parting sigh,While from his noble eyeFlashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springingCalmly the first-born of glory have met;Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!Faint is the feeble breath,Murmuring low in death,"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"Nerveless the iron hand,Raised for its native land,Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,Circles the beat of the mustering drum.Fast on the soldier's pathDarken the waves of wrath,—Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;Red glares the musket's flash,Sharp rings the rifle's crash,Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,Never to shadow his cold brow again;Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;Pale is the lip of scorn,Voiceless the trumpet horn,Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;Many a belted breastLow on the turf shall restEre the dark hunters the herd have passed by.Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;Far as the tempest thrillsOver the darkened hills,Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,Roused by the tyrant band,Woke all the mighty land,Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,While o'er their ashes the starry fold flyingWraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.Borne on her Northern pine,Long o'er the foaming brineSpread her broad banner to storm and to sun;Heaven keep her ever free,Wide as o'er land and seaFloats the fair emblem her heroes have won!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.Waving her golden veilOver the silent dale,Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;Hushed was his parting sigh,While from his noble eyeFlashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.
On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springingCalmly the first-born of glory have met;Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!Faint is the feeble breath,Murmuring low in death,"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"Nerveless the iron hand,Raised for its native land,Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.
Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,Circles the beat of the mustering drum.Fast on the soldier's pathDarken the waves of wrath,—Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;Red glares the musket's flash,Sharp rings the rifle's crash,Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.
Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,Never to shadow his cold brow again;Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;Pale is the lip of scorn,Voiceless the trumpet horn,Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;Many a belted breastLow on the turf shall restEre the dark hunters the herd have passed by.
Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;Far as the tempest thrillsOver the darkened hills,Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,Roused by the tyrant band,Woke all the mighty land,Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.
Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,While o'er their ashes the starry fold flyingWraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.Borne on her Northern pine,Long o'er the foaming brineSpread her broad banner to storm and to sun;Heaven keep her ever free,Wide as o'er land and seaFloats the fair emblem her heroes have won!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The British pressed on to Concord, but the greater part of the stores had been hidden, and minute-men were gathering from all directions. Colonel Smith, commanding the British, began to realize the dangers of his position and about noon started to retreat to Boston. And none too soon, for the whole country was aroused. Minute-men swarmed in from all directions, and taking advantage of every tree and hillock by the roadside, poured into the British a fire so deadly that the retreat soon became a disorderly flight. The timely arrival of strong reinforcements was all that saved the British from annihilation.
The British pressed on to Concord, but the greater part of the stores had been hidden, and minute-men were gathering from all directions. Colonel Smith, commanding the British, began to realize the dangers of his position and about noon started to retreat to Boston. And none too soon, for the whole country was aroused. Minute-men swarmed in from all directions, and taking advantage of every tree and hillock by the roadside, poured into the British a fire so deadly that the retreat soon became a disorderly flight. The timely arrival of strong reinforcements was all that saved the British from annihilation.
NEW ENGLAND'S CHEVY CHASE
[April 19, 1775]