Sons of valor, taste the gloriesOf celestial liberty,Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,Let the pulse of joy beat high.Heaven hath this day foil'd the manyFallacies of George the King;Let the echo reach Britan'y,Bid her mountain summits ring.See yon navy swell the bosomOf the late enragèd sea;Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,Sons of valor must be free.Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,There to combat with the brave,Driven from each dale and highland,They shall plough the purple wave.Should they thence to fair Virginia,Bend a squadron to Dunmore,Still with fear and ignominy,They shall quit the hostile shore.To Carolina or to Georg'y,Should they next advance their fame,This land of heroes shall disgorge theSons of tyranny and shame.Let them rove to climes far distant,Situate under Arctic skies,Call on Hessian troops assistant,And the savages to rise.Boast of wild brigades from Russia,To fix down the galling chain,Canada and Nova Scotia,Shall disgorge these hordes again.In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,Should their standards mock the air,Many a surgeon shall put lint onWounds of death receivèd there.War, fierce war, shall break their forces,Nerves of Tory men shall fail,Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,Bending to the western gale.Thus from every bay of ocean,Flying back with sails unfurl'd,Tossed with ever-troubled motion,They shall quit this smiling world.Like Satan banishèd from heaven,Never see the smiling shore;From this land, so happy, driven,Never stain its bosom more.
Sons of valor, taste the gloriesOf celestial liberty,Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,Let the pulse of joy beat high.Heaven hath this day foil'd the manyFallacies of George the King;Let the echo reach Britan'y,Bid her mountain summits ring.See yon navy swell the bosomOf the late enragèd sea;Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,Sons of valor must be free.Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,There to combat with the brave,Driven from each dale and highland,They shall plough the purple wave.Should they thence to fair Virginia,Bend a squadron to Dunmore,Still with fear and ignominy,They shall quit the hostile shore.To Carolina or to Georg'y,Should they next advance their fame,This land of heroes shall disgorge theSons of tyranny and shame.Let them rove to climes far distant,Situate under Arctic skies,Call on Hessian troops assistant,And the savages to rise.Boast of wild brigades from Russia,To fix down the galling chain,Canada and Nova Scotia,Shall disgorge these hordes again.In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,Should their standards mock the air,Many a surgeon shall put lint onWounds of death receivèd there.War, fierce war, shall break their forces,Nerves of Tory men shall fail,Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,Bending to the western gale.Thus from every bay of ocean,Flying back with sails unfurl'd,Tossed with ever-troubled motion,They shall quit this smiling world.Like Satan banishèd from heaven,Never see the smiling shore;From this land, so happy, driven,Never stain its bosom more.
Sons of valor, taste the gloriesOf celestial liberty,Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,Let the pulse of joy beat high.
Heaven hath this day foil'd the manyFallacies of George the King;Let the echo reach Britan'y,Bid her mountain summits ring.
See yon navy swell the bosomOf the late enragèd sea;Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,Sons of valor must be free.
Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,There to combat with the brave,Driven from each dale and highland,They shall plough the purple wave.
Should they thence to fair Virginia,Bend a squadron to Dunmore,Still with fear and ignominy,They shall quit the hostile shore.
To Carolina or to Georg'y,Should they next advance their fame,This land of heroes shall disgorge theSons of tyranny and shame.
Let them rove to climes far distant,Situate under Arctic skies,Call on Hessian troops assistant,And the savages to rise.
Boast of wild brigades from Russia,To fix down the galling chain,Canada and Nova Scotia,Shall disgorge these hordes again.
In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,Should their standards mock the air,Many a surgeon shall put lint onWounds of death receivèd there.
War, fierce war, shall break their forces,Nerves of Tory men shall fail,Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,Bending to the western gale.
Thus from every bay of ocean,Flying back with sails unfurl'd,Tossed with ever-troubled motion,They shall quit this smiling world.
Like Satan banishèd from heaven,Never see the smiling shore;From this land, so happy, driven,Never stain its bosom more.
INDEPENDENCE
At the outbreak of the Revolution very few, even of the more radical colonial leaders, thought of or desired complete independence from Great Britain. Samuel Adams was perhaps the first to proclaim this as the only solution of the problem which confronted the colonies. But the sentiment for independence grew steadily.
At the outbreak of the Revolution very few, even of the more radical colonial leaders, thought of or desired complete independence from Great Britain. Samuel Adams was perhaps the first to proclaim this as the only solution of the problem which confronted the colonies. But the sentiment for independence grew steadily.
EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE
[1775]
Libera nos, Domine—Deliver us, O Lord,Not only from British dependence, but also,From a junto that labor for absolute power,Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;From the lords of the council, who fight against freedomWho still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions,And fools that are waiting for further submissions;From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.From pirates sent out by command of the kingTo murder and plunder, but never to swing;From Wallace, and Graves, andVipers, andRoses,Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of bandittiWho plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,The little fat man with his pretty white hair.From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,And swelled with importance, disdains the committee(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,What the devil care we where the devil he goes).From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayersThat we, disunited, may freemen be still,And Britain go on—to be damn'd if she will.Philip Freneau.
Libera nos, Domine—Deliver us, O Lord,Not only from British dependence, but also,From a junto that labor for absolute power,Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;From the lords of the council, who fight against freedomWho still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions,And fools that are waiting for further submissions;From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.From pirates sent out by command of the kingTo murder and plunder, but never to swing;From Wallace, and Graves, andVipers, andRoses,Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of bandittiWho plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,The little fat man with his pretty white hair.From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,And swelled with importance, disdains the committee(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,What the devil care we where the devil he goes).From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayersThat we, disunited, may freemen be still,And Britain go on—to be damn'd if she will.Philip Freneau.
Libera nos, Domine—Deliver us, O Lord,Not only from British dependence, but also,
From a junto that labor for absolute power,Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;From the lords of the council, who fight against freedomWho still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.
From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions,And fools that are waiting for further submissions;From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.
From pirates sent out by command of the kingTo murder and plunder, but never to swing;From Wallace, and Graves, andVipers, andRoses,Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.
From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of bandittiWho plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,The little fat man with his pretty white hair.
From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).
From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,And swelled with importance, disdains the committee(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,What the devil care we where the devil he goes).
From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.
From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayersThat we, disunited, may freemen be still,And Britain go on—to be damn'd if she will.
Philip Freneau.
On June 8 Richard Henry Lee submitted to the Continental Congress a motion "That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved." The debate on the motion began July 1.
On June 8 Richard Henry Lee submitted to the Continental Congress a motion "That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved." The debate on the motion began July 1.
RODNEY'S RIDE
[July 3, 1776]
In that soft mid-land where the breezes bearThe North and South on the genial air,Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,Rode CæsarRodney, the delegate.Burly and big, and bold and bluff,In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,A foe to King George and the English State,Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Into Dover village he rode apace,And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,It was matter grave that brought him there,To the counties three on the Delaware."Money and men we must have," he said,"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead;Give us both and the King shall not work his will.We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!"Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:"Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,For the Congress halts at a deed so great,And your vote alone may decide its fate."Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare,But ride like the wind from the Delaware.""Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,And the Congress sits eighty miles away—But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,To shake my fist in King George's face."He is up; he is off! and the black horse fliesOn the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies;It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs flingThe Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling;It is three; and he gallops with slack rein whereThe road winds down to the Delaware.Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,From his panting steed he gets him down—"A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!"And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.It is five; and the beams of the western sunTinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;Six; and the dust of Chester StreetFlies back in a cloud from the courser's feet.It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam,At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,He flings his reins to the tavern jock.The Congress is met; the debate's begun,And Liberty lags for the vote of one—When into the hall, not a moment late,Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Not a moment late! and that half day's rideForwards the world with a mighty stride;For the act was passed; ere the midnight strokeO'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;"We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung,And the sons of the free may recall with prideThe day of Delegate Rodney's ride.
In that soft mid-land where the breezes bearThe North and South on the genial air,Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,Rode CæsarRodney, the delegate.Burly and big, and bold and bluff,In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,A foe to King George and the English State,Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Into Dover village he rode apace,And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,It was matter grave that brought him there,To the counties three on the Delaware."Money and men we must have," he said,"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead;Give us both and the King shall not work his will.We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!"Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:"Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,For the Congress halts at a deed so great,And your vote alone may decide its fate."Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare,But ride like the wind from the Delaware.""Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,And the Congress sits eighty miles away—But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,To shake my fist in King George's face."He is up; he is off! and the black horse fliesOn the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies;It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs flingThe Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling;It is three; and he gallops with slack rein whereThe road winds down to the Delaware.Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,From his panting steed he gets him down—"A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!"And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.It is five; and the beams of the western sunTinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;Six; and the dust of Chester StreetFlies back in a cloud from the courser's feet.It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam,At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,He flings his reins to the tavern jock.The Congress is met; the debate's begun,And Liberty lags for the vote of one—When into the hall, not a moment late,Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Not a moment late! and that half day's rideForwards the world with a mighty stride;For the act was passed; ere the midnight strokeO'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;"We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung,And the sons of the free may recall with prideThe day of Delegate Rodney's ride.
In that soft mid-land where the breezes bearThe North and South on the genial air,Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,Rode CæsarRodney, the delegate.
Burly and big, and bold and bluff,In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,A foe to King George and the English State,Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
Into Dover village he rode apace,And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,It was matter grave that brought him there,To the counties three on the Delaware.
"Money and men we must have," he said,"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead;Give us both and the King shall not work his will.We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!"
Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:"Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,For the Congress halts at a deed so great,And your vote alone may decide its fate."
Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare,But ride like the wind from the Delaware."
"Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,And the Congress sits eighty miles away—But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,To shake my fist in King George's face."
He is up; he is off! and the black horse fliesOn the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies;It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.
It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs flingThe Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling;It is three; and he gallops with slack rein whereThe road winds down to the Delaware.
Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,From his panting steed he gets him down—"A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!"And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.
It is five; and the beams of the western sunTinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;Six; and the dust of Chester StreetFlies back in a cloud from the courser's feet.
It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam,At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,He flings his reins to the tavern jock.
The Congress is met; the debate's begun,And Liberty lags for the vote of one—When into the hall, not a moment late,Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
Not a moment late! and that half day's rideForwards the world with a mighty stride;For the act was passed; ere the midnight strokeO'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.
At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;"We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung,And the sons of the free may recall with prideThe day of Delegate Rodney's ride.
The motion was put to a vote the following day, July 2, 1776, and was adopted by the unanimous vote of twelve colonies, the delegates from New York being excused from voting, as they had no sufficient instructions. This having been decided, the Congress at once went into committee of the whole, to consider the form of declaration which should be adopted.
The motion was put to a vote the following day, July 2, 1776, and was adopted by the unanimous vote of twelve colonies, the delegates from New York being excused from voting, as they had no sufficient instructions. This having been decided, the Congress at once went into committee of the whole, to consider the form of declaration which should be adopted.
AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE
Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd,Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd,Make room for America, another great nation;She rises to claim in your councils a station.Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own braveryHave rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery;America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd;And America's fame is forever restored.Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected;Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected.The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation,And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station.With glory immortal she here sits enthroned,Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded;Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded.To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us,The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us;The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us,Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us.In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance,We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance;The cause we supported was just, and was glorious;When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious.Francis Hopkinson.
Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd,Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd,Make room for America, another great nation;She rises to claim in your councils a station.Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own braveryHave rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery;America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd;And America's fame is forever restored.Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected;Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected.The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation,And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station.With glory immortal she here sits enthroned,Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded;Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded.To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us,The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us;The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us,Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us.In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance,We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance;The cause we supported was just, and was glorious;When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious.Francis Hopkinson.
Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd,Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd,Make room for America, another great nation;She rises to claim in your councils a station.
Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own braveryHave rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery;America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd;And America's fame is forever restored.
Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected;Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected.The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation,And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station.
With glory immortal she here sits enthroned,Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded;Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded.
To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us,The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us;The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us,Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us.
In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance,We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance;The cause we supported was just, and was glorious;When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious.
Francis Hopkinson.
A committee had already been appointed to draw up a paper which should be worthy this solemn occasion. Thomas Jefferson was its chairman, and was chosen to be the author of the Declaration. On the evening of July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was unanimously adopted by twelve colonies, the New York delegates being still unable to act.
A committee had already been appointed to draw up a paper which should be worthy this solemn occasion. Thomas Jefferson was its chairman, and was chosen to be the author of the Declaration. On the evening of July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was unanimously adopted by twelve colonies, the New York delegates being still unable to act.
THE FOURTH OF JULY
Day of glory! Welcome day!Freedom's banners greet thy ray;See! how cheerfully they playWith thy morning breeze,On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,On the heights where squadrons wheeled,When a tyrant's thunder pealedO'er the trembling seas.God of armies! did thy starsOn their courses smite his cars;Blast his arm, and wrest his barsFrom the heaving tide?On our standard, lo! they burn,And, when days like this return,Sparkle o'er the soldier's urnWho for freedom died.God of peace! whose spirit fillsAll the echoes of our hills,All the murmur of our rills,Now the storm is o'er,O let freemen be our sons,And let future WashingtonsRise, to lead their valiant onesTill there's war no more!John Pierpont.
Day of glory! Welcome day!Freedom's banners greet thy ray;See! how cheerfully they playWith thy morning breeze,On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,On the heights where squadrons wheeled,When a tyrant's thunder pealedO'er the trembling seas.God of armies! did thy starsOn their courses smite his cars;Blast his arm, and wrest his barsFrom the heaving tide?On our standard, lo! they burn,And, when days like this return,Sparkle o'er the soldier's urnWho for freedom died.God of peace! whose spirit fillsAll the echoes of our hills,All the murmur of our rills,Now the storm is o'er,O let freemen be our sons,And let future WashingtonsRise, to lead their valiant onesTill there's war no more!John Pierpont.
Day of glory! Welcome day!Freedom's banners greet thy ray;See! how cheerfully they playWith thy morning breeze,On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,On the heights where squadrons wheeled,When a tyrant's thunder pealedO'er the trembling seas.
God of armies! did thy starsOn their courses smite his cars;Blast his arm, and wrest his barsFrom the heaving tide?On our standard, lo! they burn,And, when days like this return,Sparkle o'er the soldier's urnWho for freedom died.
God of peace! whose spirit fillsAll the echoes of our hills,All the murmur of our rills,Now the storm is o'er,O let freemen be our sons,And let future WashingtonsRise, to lead their valiant onesTill there's war no more!
John Pierpont.
News of its adoption was received throughout the country with the greatest rejoicing. On the 9th of July it was ratified by New York, and the soldiers there celebrated the occasion by throwing down the leaden statue of George III on the Bowling Green, and casting it into bullets. Everywhere there were bonfires, torchlight processions, and ratification meetings.
News of its adoption was received throughout the country with the greatest rejoicing. On the 9th of July it was ratified by New York, and the soldiers there celebrated the occasion by throwing down the leaden statue of George III on the Bowling Green, and casting it into bullets. Everywhere there were bonfires, torchlight processions, and ratification meetings.
INDEPENDENCE DAY
Squeak the fife, and beat the drum,Independence day is come!Let the roasting pig be bled,Quick twist off the cockerel's head,Quickly rub the pewter platter,Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.Set the cups and beaker glass,The pumpkin and the apple sauce;Send the keg to shop for brandy;Maple sugar we have handy.Independent, staggering Dick,A noggin mix of swingeing thick;Sal, put on your russet skirt,Jotham, get yourboughtenshirt,To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.—Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.Moll, come leave your witched tricks,And let us have a reel of six.Father and mother shall make two;Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row;Sambo, play and dance with quality;This is the day of blest equality.Father and mother are butmen,And Sambo—is a citizen.Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in,And mother, you dance up to him;Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.—Thus we dance, and thus we play,On glorious independence day.—Rub more rosin on your bow,And let us have another go.Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady—Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby,Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair;Good folks, we're glad to see you here.Jotham, get the great case bottle,Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.Ensign,—Deacon, never mind;'Squire, drink until you're blind.Come, here's the French, the Guillotine,And here is good 'Squire Gallatin,And here's each noisy Jacobin.Here's friend Madison so hearty,And here's confusion to the treaty.Come, one more swig to Southern DemosWho represent our brother negroes.Thus we drink and dance away,This gloriousIndependence Day!Royall Tyler.
Squeak the fife, and beat the drum,Independence day is come!Let the roasting pig be bled,Quick twist off the cockerel's head,Quickly rub the pewter platter,Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.Set the cups and beaker glass,The pumpkin and the apple sauce;Send the keg to shop for brandy;Maple sugar we have handy.Independent, staggering Dick,A noggin mix of swingeing thick;Sal, put on your russet skirt,Jotham, get yourboughtenshirt,To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.—Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.Moll, come leave your witched tricks,And let us have a reel of six.Father and mother shall make two;Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row;Sambo, play and dance with quality;This is the day of blest equality.Father and mother are butmen,And Sambo—is a citizen.Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in,And mother, you dance up to him;Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.—Thus we dance, and thus we play,On glorious independence day.—Rub more rosin on your bow,And let us have another go.Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady—Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby,Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair;Good folks, we're glad to see you here.Jotham, get the great case bottle,Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.Ensign,—Deacon, never mind;'Squire, drink until you're blind.Come, here's the French, the Guillotine,And here is good 'Squire Gallatin,And here's each noisy Jacobin.Here's friend Madison so hearty,And here's confusion to the treaty.Come, one more swig to Southern DemosWho represent our brother negroes.Thus we drink and dance away,This gloriousIndependence Day!Royall Tyler.
Squeak the fife, and beat the drum,Independence day is come!Let the roasting pig be bled,Quick twist off the cockerel's head,Quickly rub the pewter platter,Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.Set the cups and beaker glass,The pumpkin and the apple sauce;Send the keg to shop for brandy;Maple sugar we have handy.Independent, staggering Dick,A noggin mix of swingeing thick;Sal, put on your russet skirt,Jotham, get yourboughtenshirt,To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.—Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.Moll, come leave your witched tricks,And let us have a reel of six.Father and mother shall make two;Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row;Sambo, play and dance with quality;This is the day of blest equality.Father and mother are butmen,And Sambo—is a citizen.Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in,And mother, you dance up to him;Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.—Thus we dance, and thus we play,On glorious independence day.—Rub more rosin on your bow,And let us have another go.Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady—Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby,Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair;Good folks, we're glad to see you here.Jotham, get the great case bottle,Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.Ensign,—Deacon, never mind;'Squire, drink until you're blind.Come, here's the French, the Guillotine,And here is good 'Squire Gallatin,And here's each noisy Jacobin.Here's friend Madison so hearty,And here's confusion to the treaty.Come, one more swig to Southern DemosWho represent our brother negroes.Thus we drink and dance away,This gloriousIndependence Day!
Royall Tyler.
ON INDEPENDENCE
[August 17, 1776]
Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free,It's for Independence we all now agree;Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defendOur liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree,And from hostile invaders set America free,The cause is so glorious we need not to fearBut from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear.Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall sayThat Americans e'er to such monsters gave way,But fighting we'll die in America's causeBefore we'll submit to tyrannical laws.George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign,With unlimited sway o'er these free States again;Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan,Shall ever be honor'd by an American.May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States,And grant that the union may never abate;May love, peace, and harmony ever be found,For to go hand in hand America round.Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestowBoth wisdom and skill our good to pursue;On Heaven alone dependent we'll be.But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free.Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skillOur armies to guide, and the sword for to wield,May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight,Be able to put British armies to flight.And now, brave Americans, since it is so,That we are independent, we'll have them to knowThat united we are, and united we'll be,And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free.May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors,Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers,Keep us from invaders by land and by sea,And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty.Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free,It's for Independence we all now agree;Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defendOur liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree,And from hostile invaders set America free,The cause is so glorious we need not to fearBut from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear.Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall sayThat Americans e'er to such monsters gave way,But fighting we'll die in America's causeBefore we'll submit to tyrannical laws.George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign,With unlimited sway o'er these free States again;Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan,Shall ever be honor'd by an American.May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States,And grant that the union may never abate;May love, peace, and harmony ever be found,For to go hand in hand America round.Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestowBoth wisdom and skill our good to pursue;On Heaven alone dependent we'll be.But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free.Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skillOur armies to guide, and the sword for to wield,May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight,Be able to put British armies to flight.And now, brave Americans, since it is so,That we are independent, we'll have them to knowThat united we are, and united we'll be,And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free.May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors,Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers,Keep us from invaders by land and by sea,And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty.Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free,It's for Independence we all now agree;Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defendOur liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.
In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree,And from hostile invaders set America free,The cause is so glorious we need not to fearBut from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear.
Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall sayThat Americans e'er to such monsters gave way,But fighting we'll die in America's causeBefore we'll submit to tyrannical laws.
George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign,With unlimited sway o'er these free States again;Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan,Shall ever be honor'd by an American.
May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States,And grant that the union may never abate;May love, peace, and harmony ever be found,For to go hand in hand America round.
Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestowBoth wisdom and skill our good to pursue;On Heaven alone dependent we'll be.But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free.
Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skillOur armies to guide, and the sword for to wield,May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight,Be able to put British armies to flight.
And now, brave Americans, since it is so,That we are independent, we'll have them to knowThat united we are, and united we'll be,And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free.
May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors,Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers,Keep us from invaders by land and by sea,And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty.
Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S PRAYER
[1776]
Parent of all, omnipotentIn heav'n, and earth below,Thro' all creation's bounds unspent,Whose streams of goodness flow.Teach me to know from whence I rose,And unto what design'd;No private aims let me propose,Since link'd with human kind.But chief to hear my country's voice,May all my thoughts incline,'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice,'Tis nature's call and thine.Me from fair freedom's sacred causeLet nothing e'er divide;Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,Nor friendship false misguide.Let me not faction's partial hatePursue tothis land'swoe;Nor grasp the thunder of the stateTo wound a private foe.If, for the right, to wish the wrongMy country shall combine,Single to serve th' erron'ous throng,Spite of themselves, be mine.
Parent of all, omnipotentIn heav'n, and earth below,Thro' all creation's bounds unspent,Whose streams of goodness flow.Teach me to know from whence I rose,And unto what design'd;No private aims let me propose,Since link'd with human kind.But chief to hear my country's voice,May all my thoughts incline,'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice,'Tis nature's call and thine.Me from fair freedom's sacred causeLet nothing e'er divide;Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,Nor friendship false misguide.Let me not faction's partial hatePursue tothis land'swoe;Nor grasp the thunder of the stateTo wound a private foe.If, for the right, to wish the wrongMy country shall combine,Single to serve th' erron'ous throng,Spite of themselves, be mine.
Parent of all, omnipotentIn heav'n, and earth below,Thro' all creation's bounds unspent,Whose streams of goodness flow.
Teach me to know from whence I rose,And unto what design'd;No private aims let me propose,Since link'd with human kind.
But chief to hear my country's voice,May all my thoughts incline,'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice,'Tis nature's call and thine.
Me from fair freedom's sacred causeLet nothing e'er divide;Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,Nor friendship false misguide.
Let me not faction's partial hatePursue tothis land'swoe;Nor grasp the thunder of the stateTo wound a private foe.
If, for the right, to wish the wrongMy country shall combine,Single to serve th' erron'ous throng,Spite of themselves, be mine.
COLUMBIA
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,While ages on ages thy splendor unfold,Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name,Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws,Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise,Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,And the east see the morn hide the beams of her star.New bards, and new sages, unrivalled shall soarTo fame unextinguished, when time is no more;To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind;Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bringTheir incense, more fragrant than odors of spring,Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,And genius and beauty in harmony blend;The graces of form shall awake pure desire,And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind,With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow,And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,The nations admire and the ocean obey;Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow;While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er-spread,From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed,The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along,And a voice as of angels, enchantingly sung:"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies."Timothy Dwight.
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,While ages on ages thy splendor unfold,Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name,Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws,Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise,Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,And the east see the morn hide the beams of her star.New bards, and new sages, unrivalled shall soarTo fame unextinguished, when time is no more;To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind;Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bringTheir incense, more fragrant than odors of spring,Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,And genius and beauty in harmony blend;The graces of form shall awake pure desire,And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind,With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow,And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,The nations admire and the ocean obey;Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow;While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er-spread,From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed,The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along,And a voice as of angels, enchantingly sung:"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies."Timothy Dwight.
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,While ages on ages thy splendor unfold,Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name,Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.
To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws,Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise,Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.
Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,And the east see the morn hide the beams of her star.New bards, and new sages, unrivalled shall soarTo fame unextinguished, when time is no more;To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind;Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bringTheir incense, more fragrant than odors of spring,
Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,And genius and beauty in harmony blend;The graces of form shall awake pure desire,And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind,With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow,And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.
Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,The nations admire and the ocean obey;Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow;While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.
Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er-spread,From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed,The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along,And a voice as of angels, enchantingly sung:"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies."
Timothy Dwight.
THE FIRST CAMPAIGN
News of the Declaration of Independence was accompanied over the country by that of a brilliant success at the South. Early in June, the British, under Sir Peter Parker, Sir Henry Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis, prepared to capture Charleston, S. C. To oppose them there was practically nothing but a fort of palmetto logs built on Sullivan's Island in Charleston harbor by Colonel William Moultrie. On June 28, 1776, the British advanced to the attack, but were beaten off with heavy loss.
News of the Declaration of Independence was accompanied over the country by that of a brilliant success at the South. Early in June, the British, under Sir Peter Parker, Sir Henry Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis, prepared to capture Charleston, S. C. To oppose them there was practically nothing but a fort of palmetto logs built on Sullivan's Island in Charleston harbor by Colonel William Moultrie. On June 28, 1776, the British advanced to the attack, but were beaten off with heavy loss.
THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER
[June 28, 1776]
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea,With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee;A little lead for a cure, he said,for these rebel sires and sons!And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted guns;They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a hopeful smile,The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noonRuin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,—The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mastAnd the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast;But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single signThat the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flagFrom the fortress wall; then rang his call:—They have lost their rebel rag!And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled;'Tis now, the haughty Admiral cried,we'll drive them out of their hold!But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted power,For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the hour!'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amazeThis hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery haze;Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught,And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught.Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet,And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea,With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee;Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and woe,For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe;But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a joyful smileThe stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.Clinton Scollard.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea,With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee;A little lead for a cure, he said,for these rebel sires and sons!And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted guns;They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a hopeful smile,The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noonRuin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,—The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mastAnd the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast;But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single signThat the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flagFrom the fortress wall; then rang his call:—They have lost their rebel rag!And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled;'Tis now, the haughty Admiral cried,we'll drive them out of their hold!But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted power,For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the hour!'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amazeThis hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery haze;Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught,And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught.Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet,And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea,With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee;Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and woe,For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe;But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a joyful smileThe stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.Clinton Scollard.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea,With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee;A little lead for a cure, he said,for these rebel sires and sons!And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted guns;They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a hopeful smile,The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noonRuin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,—The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mastAnd the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast;But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single signThat the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flagFrom the fortress wall; then rang his call:—They have lost their rebel rag!And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled;'Tis now, the haughty Admiral cried,we'll drive them out of their hold!But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted power,For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the hour!
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amazeThis hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery haze;Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught,And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught.Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet,And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea,With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee;Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and woe,For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe;But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a joyful smileThe stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.
Clinton Scollard.
The British fleet remained in the neighborhood for three weeks to refit and then sailed away to New York to coöperate with Howe. Charleston was saved and for two years the Southern States were free from the invader.
The British fleet remained in the neighborhood for three weeks to refit and then sailed away to New York to coöperate with Howe. Charleston was saved and for two years the Southern States were free from the invader.
A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER
My lords, with your leave,An account I will give,Which deserves to be written in metre;How the rebels and IHave been pretty nigh,Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!De'il take 'em! their shotCame so swift and so hot,And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,That I put ship aboutAnd was glad to get out,Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.With much labor and toilUnto Sullivan's Isle,I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;But the Yankees, od rat 'em—I could not get at 'em,They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.Behold, Clinton, by land,Did quietly stand,While I made a thundering clatter;But the channel was deep,So he only could peep,And not venture over the water.Now, bold as a Turk,I proceeded to York,Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:I've the wind in my tail,And am hoisting my sail,To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.But, my lords, do not fear,For, before the next year,Although a small island should fret us,The continent, whole,We will take, by my soul,If the cowardly Yankees will let us.
My lords, with your leave,An account I will give,Which deserves to be written in metre;How the rebels and IHave been pretty nigh,Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!De'il take 'em! their shotCame so swift and so hot,And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,That I put ship aboutAnd was glad to get out,Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.With much labor and toilUnto Sullivan's Isle,I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;But the Yankees, od rat 'em—I could not get at 'em,They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.Behold, Clinton, by land,Did quietly stand,While I made a thundering clatter;But the channel was deep,So he only could peep,And not venture over the water.Now, bold as a Turk,I proceeded to York,Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:I've the wind in my tail,And am hoisting my sail,To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.But, my lords, do not fear,For, before the next year,Although a small island should fret us,The continent, whole,We will take, by my soul,If the cowardly Yankees will let us.
My lords, with your leave,An account I will give,Which deserves to be written in metre;How the rebels and IHave been pretty nigh,Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!
De'il take 'em! their shotCame so swift and so hot,And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,That I put ship aboutAnd was glad to get out,Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.
With much labor and toilUnto Sullivan's Isle,I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;But the Yankees, od rat 'em—I could not get at 'em,They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.
Behold, Clinton, by land,Did quietly stand,While I made a thundering clatter;But the channel was deep,So he only could peep,And not venture over the water.
Now, bold as a Turk,I proceeded to York,Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:I've the wind in my tail,And am hoisting my sail,To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.
But, my lords, do not fear,For, before the next year,Although a small island should fret us,The continent, whole,We will take, by my soul,If the cowardly Yankees will let us.
The victory at Charleston was the last success which American arms were to achieve for many months. The British had decided to capture and hold the line of the Hudson in order to cut the colonies in two. Howe, with a trained army of twenty-five thousand men, prepared to attack New York, while, to oppose him, Washington had only eighteen thousand undisciplined levies. Half this force was concentrated at Brooklyn Heights, which was strongly fortified, and here, on August 27, 1776, Howe delivered his attack. Overwhelming superiority of numbers enabled the British to press back their opponents to their works on the heights. Not daring to storm, the British prepared to lay siege to this position. Washington had no way to withstand a siege, which must have resulted in the loss of his whole army, and after nightfall of August 29, he succeeded in ferrying the entire force, with their cannon, arms, ammunition, horses, and larder, over to the New York side.
The victory at Charleston was the last success which American arms were to achieve for many months. The British had decided to capture and hold the line of the Hudson in order to cut the colonies in two. Howe, with a trained army of twenty-five thousand men, prepared to attack New York, while, to oppose him, Washington had only eighteen thousand undisciplined levies. Half this force was concentrated at Brooklyn Heights, which was strongly fortified, and here, on August 27, 1776, Howe delivered his attack. Overwhelming superiority of numbers enabled the British to press back their opponents to their works on the heights. Not daring to storm, the British prepared to lay siege to this position. Washington had no way to withstand a siege, which must have resulted in the loss of his whole army, and after nightfall of August 29, he succeeded in ferrying the entire force, with their cannon, arms, ammunition, horses, and larder, over to the New York side.
THE MARYLAND BATTALION
[August 27, 1776]
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall,Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff,Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff—But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer.And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills,By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane;For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneersWas sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers—For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!When the cohorts ofGrantheld stoutStirlingat strain,And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait?Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die;For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!"Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll,We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll—When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.John Williamson Palmer.
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall,Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff,Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff—But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer.And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills,By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane;For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneersWas sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers—For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!When the cohorts ofGrantheld stoutStirlingat strain,And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait?Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die;For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!"Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll,We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll—When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.John Williamson Palmer.
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall,Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff,Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff—But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer.And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.
There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills,By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane;For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.
Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneersWas sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers—For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!
Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!When the cohorts ofGrantheld stoutStirlingat strain,And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!
"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait?Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"
Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die;For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!"Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll,We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll—When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.
John Williamson Palmer.
On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York, and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been formed.
On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York, and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been formed.
HAARLEM HEIGHTS
Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells of the affair of September 16, 1776.
They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,Despite your hireling band!The farmer boys have borne a brunt,The 'prentice lads will stand!Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,Our fight's as good as won;We've made them yield in open field!We've made the Redcoats run!Our Rangers sallied forth at dawnWithKnowltonat their headTo rout the British pickets outAnd spend a little lead.We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,And hurried, fighting, back;For, eighteen score, the Light Armed CorpsWere keen upon our track.Along the vale of BloomingdaleThey pressed our scant array;They swarmed the crag and jeered our flagAcross the Hollow Way.Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"Their buglers, from the wall,In braggart vaunt and bitter tauntBrayed out the hunting call!Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flameIn every sunburned face,And every soul was hot as coalTo cleanse the foul disgrace.And some that blenched on Brooklyn HeightsAnd fled at Turtle BayFair wept for wrath, and thronged my pathAnd clamored for the fray.Our General came spurring!—There rolled a signal drum.—His eye was bright; he rose his height;He knew the time had come.He gave the word to KnowltonTo lead us on once more—The pick of old Connecticut,—And Leitch with Weedon's corpsOf proud Virginia Riflemen,Tall hunters of the deer,—To round the boastful Briton's flankAnd take him in the rear.We left the dell, we scaled the fell,And up the crest we sprang,When swift and sharp along the scarpA deadly volley rang;And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps!Deep hurt, but gallant still;And down went Knowlton!—he that boreThe sword of Bunker Hill.I raised his head. But this he said,Death-wounded as he lay:"Lead on the fight! I hold it lightIf we but get the day!"In open rank we struck their flank,And oh! the fight was hot!Up came the Hessian Yagers!Up came the kilted Scot!Up came the men of Linsingen,Von Donop's Grenadiers!But soon we sped the vengeful leadA-whistling 'bout their ears!They buckled front to Varnum's brunt;We crumpled up their right,And hurling back the crimson wrackWe swept along the height.The helmets of the HessiansAre tumbled in the wheat;The tartan of the HighlanderShall be his winding-sheet!A mingled rout, we drove them outFrom orchard, field, and glen;In goodly case it seemed to chaseOur hunters home again!We flaunted in their facesThe flag they thought to scorn,And left them with a loud "Hurrah!"To choke their bugle-horn!Upon a ledge embattledAbove the Hudson's shoreWe dug the grave for KnowltonAnd Leitch of Weedon's corps.And though in plight of War's despiteWe yield this island throne,Upon that ledge we left a pledgeThat we shall claim our own!Arthur Guiterman.
They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,Despite your hireling band!The farmer boys have borne a brunt,The 'prentice lads will stand!Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,Our fight's as good as won;We've made them yield in open field!We've made the Redcoats run!Our Rangers sallied forth at dawnWithKnowltonat their headTo rout the British pickets outAnd spend a little lead.We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,And hurried, fighting, back;For, eighteen score, the Light Armed CorpsWere keen upon our track.Along the vale of BloomingdaleThey pressed our scant array;They swarmed the crag and jeered our flagAcross the Hollow Way.Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"Their buglers, from the wall,In braggart vaunt and bitter tauntBrayed out the hunting call!Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flameIn every sunburned face,And every soul was hot as coalTo cleanse the foul disgrace.And some that blenched on Brooklyn HeightsAnd fled at Turtle BayFair wept for wrath, and thronged my pathAnd clamored for the fray.Our General came spurring!—There rolled a signal drum.—His eye was bright; he rose his height;He knew the time had come.He gave the word to KnowltonTo lead us on once more—The pick of old Connecticut,—And Leitch with Weedon's corpsOf proud Virginia Riflemen,Tall hunters of the deer,—To round the boastful Briton's flankAnd take him in the rear.We left the dell, we scaled the fell,And up the crest we sprang,When swift and sharp along the scarpA deadly volley rang;And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps!Deep hurt, but gallant still;And down went Knowlton!—he that boreThe sword of Bunker Hill.I raised his head. But this he said,Death-wounded as he lay:"Lead on the fight! I hold it lightIf we but get the day!"In open rank we struck their flank,And oh! the fight was hot!Up came the Hessian Yagers!Up came the kilted Scot!Up came the men of Linsingen,Von Donop's Grenadiers!But soon we sped the vengeful leadA-whistling 'bout their ears!They buckled front to Varnum's brunt;We crumpled up their right,And hurling back the crimson wrackWe swept along the height.The helmets of the HessiansAre tumbled in the wheat;The tartan of the HighlanderShall be his winding-sheet!A mingled rout, we drove them outFrom orchard, field, and glen;In goodly case it seemed to chaseOur hunters home again!We flaunted in their facesThe flag they thought to scorn,And left them with a loud "Hurrah!"To choke their bugle-horn!Upon a ledge embattledAbove the Hudson's shoreWe dug the grave for KnowltonAnd Leitch of Weedon's corps.And though in plight of War's despiteWe yield this island throne,Upon that ledge we left a pledgeThat we shall claim our own!Arthur Guiterman.
They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,Despite your hireling band!The farmer boys have borne a brunt,The 'prentice lads will stand!
Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,Our fight's as good as won;We've made them yield in open field!We've made the Redcoats run!
Our Rangers sallied forth at dawnWithKnowltonat their headTo rout the British pickets outAnd spend a little lead.
We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,And hurried, fighting, back;For, eighteen score, the Light Armed CorpsWere keen upon our track.
Along the vale of BloomingdaleThey pressed our scant array;They swarmed the crag and jeered our flagAcross the Hollow Way.
Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"Their buglers, from the wall,In braggart vaunt and bitter tauntBrayed out the hunting call!
Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flameIn every sunburned face,And every soul was hot as coalTo cleanse the foul disgrace.
And some that blenched on Brooklyn HeightsAnd fled at Turtle BayFair wept for wrath, and thronged my pathAnd clamored for the fray.
Our General came spurring!—There rolled a signal drum.—His eye was bright; he rose his height;He knew the time had come.
He gave the word to KnowltonTo lead us on once more—The pick of old Connecticut,—And Leitch with Weedon's corps
Of proud Virginia Riflemen,Tall hunters of the deer,—To round the boastful Briton's flankAnd take him in the rear.
We left the dell, we scaled the fell,And up the crest we sprang,When swift and sharp along the scarpA deadly volley rang;
And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps!Deep hurt, but gallant still;And down went Knowlton!—he that boreThe sword of Bunker Hill.
I raised his head. But this he said,Death-wounded as he lay:"Lead on the fight! I hold it lightIf we but get the day!"
In open rank we struck their flank,And oh! the fight was hot!Up came the Hessian Yagers!Up came the kilted Scot!
Up came the men of Linsingen,Von Donop's Grenadiers!But soon we sped the vengeful leadA-whistling 'bout their ears!
They buckled front to Varnum's brunt;We crumpled up their right,And hurling back the crimson wrackWe swept along the height.
The helmets of the HessiansAre tumbled in the wheat;The tartan of the HighlanderShall be his winding-sheet!
A mingled rout, we drove them outFrom orchard, field, and glen;In goodly case it seemed to chaseOur hunters home again!
We flaunted in their facesThe flag they thought to scorn,And left them with a loud "Hurrah!"To choke their bugle-horn!
Upon a ledge embattledAbove the Hudson's shoreWe dug the grave for KnowltonAnd Leitch of Weedon's corps.
And though in plight of War's despiteWe yield this island throne,Upon that ledge we left a pledgeThat we shall claim our own!
Arthur Guiterman.
At this time occurred the first of the two most dramatic and moving tragedies of the Revolution. It was important that Washington should obtain detailed and accurate information as to the position and intentions of the British, and Nathan Hale, a captain in Knowlton's regiment, volunteered for the service, and passed into the Britishlines in disguise. He was captured and taken before Sir William Howe, to whom he frankly acknowledged his errand. Howe ordered him hanged next day.
At this time occurred the first of the two most dramatic and moving tragedies of the Revolution. It was important that Washington should obtain detailed and accurate information as to the position and intentions of the British, and Nathan Hale, a captain in Knowlton's regiment, volunteered for the service, and passed into the Britishlines in disguise. He was captured and taken before Sir William Howe, to whom he frankly acknowledged his errand. Howe ordered him hanged next day.
NATHAN HALE
[September 22, 1776]