A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer,Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover,For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer,"And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over,In their channel and coast,He scattered their host,And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast,And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fearOf Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land,Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor,He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command,And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor,'Twas his hand that raisedThe first flag that blazed,And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd,For hundreds of foes met a watery bierFrom Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crewThat strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered;Remember his valor at proud Flamborough,When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard;Oh! he robbed of their storeThe vessels sent o'erTo feed all the Tories and foes on our shore,He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revereThe name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.
A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer,Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover,For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer,"And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over,In their channel and coast,He scattered their host,And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast,And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fearOf Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land,Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor,He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command,And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor,'Twas his hand that raisedThe first flag that blazed,And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd,For hundreds of foes met a watery bierFrom Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crewThat strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered;Remember his valor at proud Flamborough,When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard;Oh! he robbed of their storeThe vessels sent o'erTo feed all the Tories and foes on our shore,He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revereThe name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.
A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer,Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover,For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer,"And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over,In their channel and coast,He scattered their host,And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast,And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fearOf Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.
In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land,Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor,He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command,And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor,'Twas his hand that raisedThe first flag that blazed,And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd,For hundreds of foes met a watery bierFrom Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.
His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crewThat strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered;Remember his valor at proud Flamborough,When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard;Oh! he robbed of their storeThe vessels sent o'erTo feed all the Tories and foes on our shore,He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revereThe name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.
In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight. With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was fitting out for the following year.
In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight. With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was fitting out for the following year.
THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR
[1778]
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,—With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three,Her spanker and her standing jib—the courses being free;"Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!"And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's,For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts fourWe saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past—"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!"Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark."Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet,And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,—With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three,Her spanker and her standing jib—the courses being free;"Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!"And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's,For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts fourWe saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past—"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!"Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark."Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet,And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,—With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.
There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.
The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.
The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three,Her spanker and her standing jib—the courses being free;"Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!"And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.
What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's,For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts fourWe saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.
Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past—"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!"Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.
"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet,And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.
The new squadron sailed for the English coast in the summer of 1779. It consisted of the flagship—a clumsy old Indiaman called the Duras, whose name Jones changed to Bon Homme Richard—and four consorts. The summer was spent in cruising about the British coast and so much damage was done that Paul Jones became a sort of bogey to all England.
The new squadron sailed for the English coast in the summer of 1779. It consisted of the flagship—a clumsy old Indiaman called the Duras, whose name Jones changed to Bon Homme Richard—and four consorts. The summer was spent in cruising about the British coast and so much damage was done that Paul Jones became a sort of bogey to all England.
PAUL JONES—A NEW SONG
Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four,That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er,For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones,As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue,At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoansThe losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.How happy for England, would Fortune but sweepAt once all her treacherous foes to the deep;For the land under burthens most bitterly groans,To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend,In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend,May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd,Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd,The Leaders in office to shove from the board;May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bonesOf Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!
Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four,That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er,For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones,As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue,At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoansThe losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.How happy for England, would Fortune but sweepAt once all her treacherous foes to the deep;For the land under burthens most bitterly groans,To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend,In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend,May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd,Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd,The Leaders in office to shove from the board;May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bonesOf Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!
Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four,That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er,For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones,As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.
Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue,At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoansThe losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.
How happy for England, would Fortune but sweepAt once all her treacherous foes to the deep;For the land under burthens most bitterly groans,To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.
To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend,In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend,May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd,Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!
If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd,The Leaders in office to shove from the board;May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bonesOf Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!
On September 23, 1779, the little squadron sighted a British fleet of forty sail off Flamborough Head. They were merchantmen bound for the Baltic under convoy of the Serapis, forty-four, and the Countess of Scarborough, twenty. Captain Jones instantly gave chase, ordering his consorts to form in line of battle, but the Alliance, whose command had been given to a Frenchman, ran off to some distance, leaving the Richard to attack the Serapis single-handed, while the Pallas took care of the Scarborough.
On September 23, 1779, the little squadron sighted a British fleet of forty sail off Flamborough Head. They were merchantmen bound for the Baltic under convoy of the Serapis, forty-four, and the Countess of Scarborough, twenty. Captain Jones instantly gave chase, ordering his consorts to form in line of battle, but the Alliance, whose command had been given to a Frenchman, ran off to some distance, leaving the Richard to attack the Serapis single-handed, while the Pallas took care of the Scarborough.
PAUL JONES
[September 23, 1779]
An American frigate from Baltimore came,Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name;Went to cruise in the channel of old England,With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.We had not sail'd long before we did espyA large forty-four, and a twenty close by:These two warlike ships, full laden with store,Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.At the hour of twelve,Piercecame alongside.With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried;"Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before,Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run:Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;"When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen,We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot,Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot,And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore,Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,"Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;"Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride,"If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down,The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake,Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize,A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;They are both noble vessels, well laden with store!We will toss off the can to our country once more.God help the poor widows, who shortly must weepFor the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep!We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand,Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.
An American frigate from Baltimore came,Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name;Went to cruise in the channel of old England,With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.We had not sail'd long before we did espyA large forty-four, and a twenty close by:These two warlike ships, full laden with store,Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.At the hour of twelve,Piercecame alongside.With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried;"Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before,Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run:Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;"When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen,We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot,Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot,And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore,Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,"Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;"Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride,"If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down,The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake,Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize,A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;They are both noble vessels, well laden with store!We will toss off the can to our country once more.God help the poor widows, who shortly must weepFor the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep!We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand,Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.
An American frigate from Baltimore came,Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name;Went to cruise in the channel of old England,With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.
We had not sail'd long before we did espyA large forty-four, and a twenty close by:These two warlike ships, full laden with store,Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.
At the hour of twelve,Piercecame alongside.With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried;"Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before,Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."
Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run:Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;"When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen,We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.
We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot,Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot,And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore,Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.
Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,"Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;"Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride,"If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."
At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down,The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake,Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.
Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize,A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;They are both noble vessels, well laden with store!We will toss off the can to our country once more.
God help the poor widows, who shortly must weepFor the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep!We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand,Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.
The Serapis was greatly superior to the Richard in armament and fighting qualities, but Jones succeeded in running his vessel into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their yardarms interlocked and both ships were soon covered with dead and wounded. At the end of two hours, the Serapis was on fire; but the Richard was already sinking. Half an hour later the Serapis surrendered. The Richard was kept afloat with great difficulty until morning, when she sank.
The Serapis was greatly superior to the Richard in armament and fighting qualities, but Jones succeeded in running his vessel into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their yardarms interlocked and both ships were soon covered with dead and wounded. At the end of two hours, the Serapis was on fire; but the Richard was already sinking. Half an hour later the Serapis surrendered. The Richard was kept afloat with great difficulty until morning, when she sank.
THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS
[September 23, 1779]
O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet,The guardian of a numerous fleet,Serapis from the Baltic came:A ship of less tremendous forceSail'd by her side the self-same course,Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.And now their native coasts appear,Britannia's hills their summits rearAbove the German main;Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,They southward coast along the shore,Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.Full forty guns Serapis bore,And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars—What flag that rides the Gallic seasShall dare attack such piles as these,Design'd for tumults and for wars!Now from the top-mast's giddy heightA seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sightApproach with favoring gales."Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,Stood off to sea, these ships to meet,And closely brac'd his shivering sails.With him advanc'd the Countess bold,Like a black tar in wars grown old:And now these floating piles drew nigh.But, muse, unfold what chief of fameIn the other warlike squadron came,Whose standards at his mast-head fly.'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle ledAs bold a crew as ever bledUpon the sky-surrounded main;The standards of the western worldWere to the willing winds unfurl'd,Denying Britain's tyrant reign.The Good-Man-Richard led the line;The Alliance next: with these combineThe Gallic ship they Pallas call,The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame;These to attack the Britons came—Buttwoaccomplish'd all.Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed:But who can tell the scenes of dread,The horrors of that fatal night!Close up these floating castles came:The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame;Serapis trembled at the sight.She felt the fury ofherball:Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall;The decks were strew'd with slain:Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;And, while the black artillery flash'd,Loud thunders shook the main.Alas! that mortals should employSuch murdering engines to destroyThat frame by heaven so nicely join'd;Alas! that e'er the god decreedThat brother should by brother bleed,And pour'd such madness in the mind.But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear,The rights of man demand your care:Fortheseyou dare the greedy waves.No tyrant, on destruction bent,Has plann'd thy conquest—thou art sentTo humble tyrants and their slaves.See!—dread Serapis flames again—And art thou, Jones, among the slain,And sunk to Neptune's caves below?—He lives—though crowds around him fall,Still he, unhurt, survives them all;Almost alone he fights the foe.And can your ship these strokes sustain?Behold your brave companions slain,All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace;Strike, or be sunk—the Briton cries—Sink if you can—the chief replies,Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.Then to the side three guns he drew(Almost deserted by his crew),And charg'd them deep with woe;By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls;His main-mast totters—down it falls—O'erwhelming half below.Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield,But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,And thus was heard to cry—"With hell, not mortals, I contend;What art thou—human, or a fiend,That dost my force defy?"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"—So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;But call'd, alas! in vain;Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;Some to their deep recesses fled,And hosts were shrouded in the main.Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,And yielded to his gallant foe;Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,—Thus both their haughty colors struck,Confessing what the brave can do.But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buyThese ships possest so gloriously,Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,That the proud Briton overcame,Even she forsook thee on thy way;For when the morn began to shine,Fatal to her, the ocean brinePour'd through each spacious wound;Quick in the deep she disappear'd;But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,With conquest and with glory crown'd.Go on, great man, to scourge the foe,And bid these haughty Britons knowThey to ourThirteen Starsshall bend;ThoseStarsthat, veil'd in dark attire,Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,But radiant now ascend.Bend to the Stars that flaming riseIn western, not in eastern, skies,Fair Freedom's reign restored—So when the Magi, come from far,Beheld the God-attending Star,They trembled and ador'd.Philip Freneau.
O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet,The guardian of a numerous fleet,Serapis from the Baltic came:A ship of less tremendous forceSail'd by her side the self-same course,Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.And now their native coasts appear,Britannia's hills their summits rearAbove the German main;Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,They southward coast along the shore,Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.Full forty guns Serapis bore,And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars—What flag that rides the Gallic seasShall dare attack such piles as these,Design'd for tumults and for wars!Now from the top-mast's giddy heightA seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sightApproach with favoring gales."Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,Stood off to sea, these ships to meet,And closely brac'd his shivering sails.With him advanc'd the Countess bold,Like a black tar in wars grown old:And now these floating piles drew nigh.But, muse, unfold what chief of fameIn the other warlike squadron came,Whose standards at his mast-head fly.'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle ledAs bold a crew as ever bledUpon the sky-surrounded main;The standards of the western worldWere to the willing winds unfurl'd,Denying Britain's tyrant reign.The Good-Man-Richard led the line;The Alliance next: with these combineThe Gallic ship they Pallas call,The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame;These to attack the Britons came—Buttwoaccomplish'd all.Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed:But who can tell the scenes of dread,The horrors of that fatal night!Close up these floating castles came:The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame;Serapis trembled at the sight.She felt the fury ofherball:Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall;The decks were strew'd with slain:Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;And, while the black artillery flash'd,Loud thunders shook the main.Alas! that mortals should employSuch murdering engines to destroyThat frame by heaven so nicely join'd;Alas! that e'er the god decreedThat brother should by brother bleed,And pour'd such madness in the mind.But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear,The rights of man demand your care:Fortheseyou dare the greedy waves.No tyrant, on destruction bent,Has plann'd thy conquest—thou art sentTo humble tyrants and their slaves.See!—dread Serapis flames again—And art thou, Jones, among the slain,And sunk to Neptune's caves below?—He lives—though crowds around him fall,Still he, unhurt, survives them all;Almost alone he fights the foe.And can your ship these strokes sustain?Behold your brave companions slain,All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace;Strike, or be sunk—the Briton cries—Sink if you can—the chief replies,Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.Then to the side three guns he drew(Almost deserted by his crew),And charg'd them deep with woe;By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls;His main-mast totters—down it falls—O'erwhelming half below.Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield,But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,And thus was heard to cry—"With hell, not mortals, I contend;What art thou—human, or a fiend,That dost my force defy?"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"—So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;But call'd, alas! in vain;Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;Some to their deep recesses fled,And hosts were shrouded in the main.Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,And yielded to his gallant foe;Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,—Thus both their haughty colors struck,Confessing what the brave can do.But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buyThese ships possest so gloriously,Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,That the proud Briton overcame,Even she forsook thee on thy way;For when the morn began to shine,Fatal to her, the ocean brinePour'd through each spacious wound;Quick in the deep she disappear'd;But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,With conquest and with glory crown'd.Go on, great man, to scourge the foe,And bid these haughty Britons knowThey to ourThirteen Starsshall bend;ThoseStarsthat, veil'd in dark attire,Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,But radiant now ascend.Bend to the Stars that flaming riseIn western, not in eastern, skies,Fair Freedom's reign restored—So when the Magi, come from far,Beheld the God-attending Star,They trembled and ador'd.Philip Freneau.
O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet,The guardian of a numerous fleet,Serapis from the Baltic came:A ship of less tremendous forceSail'd by her side the self-same course,Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.
And now their native coasts appear,Britannia's hills their summits rearAbove the German main;Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,They southward coast along the shore,Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.
Full forty guns Serapis bore,And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars—What flag that rides the Gallic seasShall dare attack such piles as these,Design'd for tumults and for wars!
Now from the top-mast's giddy heightA seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sightApproach with favoring gales."Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,Stood off to sea, these ships to meet,And closely brac'd his shivering sails.
With him advanc'd the Countess bold,Like a black tar in wars grown old:And now these floating piles drew nigh.But, muse, unfold what chief of fameIn the other warlike squadron came,Whose standards at his mast-head fly.
'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle ledAs bold a crew as ever bledUpon the sky-surrounded main;The standards of the western worldWere to the willing winds unfurl'd,Denying Britain's tyrant reign.
The Good-Man-Richard led the line;The Alliance next: with these combineThe Gallic ship they Pallas call,The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame;These to attack the Britons came—Buttwoaccomplish'd all.
Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed:But who can tell the scenes of dread,The horrors of that fatal night!Close up these floating castles came:The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame;Serapis trembled at the sight.
She felt the fury ofherball:Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall;The decks were strew'd with slain:Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;And, while the black artillery flash'd,Loud thunders shook the main.
Alas! that mortals should employSuch murdering engines to destroyThat frame by heaven so nicely join'd;Alas! that e'er the god decreedThat brother should by brother bleed,And pour'd such madness in the mind.
But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear,The rights of man demand your care:Fortheseyou dare the greedy waves.No tyrant, on destruction bent,Has plann'd thy conquest—thou art sentTo humble tyrants and their slaves.
See!—dread Serapis flames again—And art thou, Jones, among the slain,And sunk to Neptune's caves below?—He lives—though crowds around him fall,Still he, unhurt, survives them all;Almost alone he fights the foe.
And can your ship these strokes sustain?Behold your brave companions slain,All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace;Strike, or be sunk—the Briton cries—Sink if you can—the chief replies,Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.
Then to the side three guns he drew(Almost deserted by his crew),And charg'd them deep with woe;By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls;His main-mast totters—down it falls—O'erwhelming half below.
Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield,But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,And thus was heard to cry—"With hell, not mortals, I contend;What art thou—human, or a fiend,That dost my force defy?
"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"—So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;But call'd, alas! in vain;Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;Some to their deep recesses fled,And hosts were shrouded in the main.
Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,And yielded to his gallant foe;Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,—Thus both their haughty colors struck,Confessing what the brave can do.
But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buyThese ships possest so gloriously,Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,That the proud Briton overcame,Even she forsook thee on thy way;
For when the morn began to shine,Fatal to her, the ocean brinePour'd through each spacious wound;Quick in the deep she disappear'd;But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,With conquest and with glory crown'd.
Go on, great man, to scourge the foe,And bid these haughty Britons knowThey to ourThirteen Starsshall bend;ThoseStarsthat, veil'd in dark attire,Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,But radiant now ascend.
Bend to the Stars that flaming riseIn western, not in eastern, skies,Fair Freedom's reign restored—So when the Magi, come from far,Beheld the God-attending Star,They trembled and ador'd.
Philip Freneau.
Another remarkable action was that between the Hyder Ali and the General Monk. The latter, a cruiser mounting twenty nine-pounders, had been harassing the American shipping in Delaware Bay, and the merchants of Philadelphia finally equipped the Hyder Ali, an old merchantman, with sixteen six-pounders, put Joshua Barney in command and started him after the British ship.
Another remarkable action was that between the Hyder Ali and the General Monk. The latter, a cruiser mounting twenty nine-pounders, had been harassing the American shipping in Delaware Bay, and the merchants of Philadelphia finally equipped the Hyder Ali, an old merchantman, with sixteen six-pounders, put Joshua Barney in command and started him after the British ship.
BARNEY'S INVITATION
[April, 1782]
Come all ye lads who know no fear,To wealth and honor with me steerIn the Hyder Aliprivateer,Commanded by brave Barney.She's new and true, and tight and sound,Well rigged aloft, and all well found—Come away and be with laurel crowned,Away—and leave your lasses.Accept our terms without delay,And make your fortunes while you may,Such offers are not every dayIn the power of the jolly sailor.Success and fame attend the brave,But death the coward and the slave,Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave,To seek the bold invaders.Come, then, and take a cruising bout,Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,She has been tried both in and out,And answers expectation.Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,Distress our trade, insult our shore—Teach them to know their reign is o'er,Bold Philadelphia sailors!We'll teach them how to sail so near,Or to venture on the Delaware,When we in warlike trim appearAnd cruise without Henlopen.Who cannot wounds and battle dareShall never clasp the blooming fair;The brave alone their charms should share,The brave are their protectors.With hand and heart united all,Prepared to conquer or to fall,Attend, my lads, to honor's call,Embark in our Hyder Ali.From an Eastern prince she takes her name,Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,Usurping Britons brought to shame,His country's wrongs avenging;See, on her stern the waving stars—Inured to blood, inured to wars,Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,To scourge these warlike Britons.Here's grog enough—then drink a bout,I know your hearts are firm and stout;American blood will never give out,And often we have proved it.Though stormy oceans round us roll,We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,Befriended by the cheering bowl,Sworn foes to melancholy:When timorous landsmen lurk on shore,'Tis ours to go where cannons roar—On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,Despisers of all danger;And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,Shall guard us over the gloomy wave;A fearful heart betrays the knave—Success to the Hyder Ali.Philip Freneau.
Come all ye lads who know no fear,To wealth and honor with me steerIn the Hyder Aliprivateer,Commanded by brave Barney.She's new and true, and tight and sound,Well rigged aloft, and all well found—Come away and be with laurel crowned,Away—and leave your lasses.Accept our terms without delay,And make your fortunes while you may,Such offers are not every dayIn the power of the jolly sailor.Success and fame attend the brave,But death the coward and the slave,Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave,To seek the bold invaders.Come, then, and take a cruising bout,Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,She has been tried both in and out,And answers expectation.Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,Distress our trade, insult our shore—Teach them to know their reign is o'er,Bold Philadelphia sailors!We'll teach them how to sail so near,Or to venture on the Delaware,When we in warlike trim appearAnd cruise without Henlopen.Who cannot wounds and battle dareShall never clasp the blooming fair;The brave alone their charms should share,The brave are their protectors.With hand and heart united all,Prepared to conquer or to fall,Attend, my lads, to honor's call,Embark in our Hyder Ali.From an Eastern prince she takes her name,Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,Usurping Britons brought to shame,His country's wrongs avenging;See, on her stern the waving stars—Inured to blood, inured to wars,Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,To scourge these warlike Britons.Here's grog enough—then drink a bout,I know your hearts are firm and stout;American blood will never give out,And often we have proved it.Though stormy oceans round us roll,We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,Befriended by the cheering bowl,Sworn foes to melancholy:When timorous landsmen lurk on shore,'Tis ours to go where cannons roar—On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,Despisers of all danger;And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,Shall guard us over the gloomy wave;A fearful heart betrays the knave—Success to the Hyder Ali.Philip Freneau.
Come all ye lads who know no fear,To wealth and honor with me steerIn the Hyder Aliprivateer,Commanded by brave Barney.
She's new and true, and tight and sound,Well rigged aloft, and all well found—Come away and be with laurel crowned,Away—and leave your lasses.
Accept our terms without delay,And make your fortunes while you may,Such offers are not every dayIn the power of the jolly sailor.
Success and fame attend the brave,But death the coward and the slave,Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave,To seek the bold invaders.
Come, then, and take a cruising bout,Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,She has been tried both in and out,And answers expectation.
Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,Distress our trade, insult our shore—Teach them to know their reign is o'er,Bold Philadelphia sailors!
We'll teach them how to sail so near,Or to venture on the Delaware,When we in warlike trim appearAnd cruise without Henlopen.
Who cannot wounds and battle dareShall never clasp the blooming fair;The brave alone their charms should share,The brave are their protectors.
With hand and heart united all,Prepared to conquer or to fall,Attend, my lads, to honor's call,Embark in our Hyder Ali.
From an Eastern prince she takes her name,Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,Usurping Britons brought to shame,His country's wrongs avenging;
See, on her stern the waving stars—Inured to blood, inured to wars,Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,To scourge these warlike Britons.
Here's grog enough—then drink a bout,I know your hearts are firm and stout;American blood will never give out,And often we have proved it.
Though stormy oceans round us roll,We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,Befriended by the cheering bowl,Sworn foes to melancholy:
When timorous landsmen lurk on shore,'Tis ours to go where cannons roar—On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,Despisers of all danger;
And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,Shall guard us over the gloomy wave;A fearful heart betrays the knave—Success to the Hyder Ali.
Philip Freneau.
The Hyder Ali sailed down the bay April 8, 1782, and met the Englishman near the capes. By skilful manœuvring, Barney was able to rake his antagonist; then, lashing fast, poured several broadsides in rapid succession into the enemy, who struck their colors at the end of thirty minutes.
The Hyder Ali sailed down the bay April 8, 1782, and met the Englishman near the capes. By skilful manœuvring, Barney was able to rake his antagonist; then, lashing fast, poured several broadsides in rapid succession into the enemy, who struck their colors at the end of thirty minutes.
SONG
ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY OVER THE SHIP GENERAL MONK
[April 8, 1782]
O'er the waste of waters cruising,Long the General Monk had reigned;All subduing, all reducing,None her lawless rage restrained:Many a brave and hearty fellowYielding to this warlike foe,When her guns began to bellowStruck his humbled colors low.But grown bold with long successes,Leaving the wide watery way,She, a stranger to distresses,Came to cruise within Cape May:"Now we soon (said Captain Rogers)Shall their men of commerce meet;In our hold we'll have them lodgers,We shall capture half their fleet."Lo! I see their van appearing—Back our topsails to the mast—They toward us full are steeringWith a gentle western blast:I've a list of all their cargoes,All their guns, and all their men:I am sure these modern ArgosCan't escape us one in ten:"Yonder comes the Charming SallySailing with the General Greene—First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,Taking her is taking them:She intends to give us battle,Bearing down with all her sail—Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!To take her we cannot fail."Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder,Soon shall terrify this foe;We shall maul her, we shall wound her,Bringing rebel colors low."—While he thus anticipatedConquests that he could not gain,He in the Cape May channel waitedFor the ship that caused his pain.Captain Barney then preparing,Thus addressed his gallant crew—"Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,Let your hearts be firm and true;This is a proud English cruiser,Roving up and down the main,We must fight her—must reduce her,Though our decks be strewed with slain."Let who will be the survivor,We must conquer or must die,We must take her up the river,Whate'er comes of you or I:Though she shows most formidableWith her eighteen pointed nines,And her quarters clad in sable,Let us balk her proud designs."With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixesWe will face that daring band;Let no dangers damp your courage,Nothing can the brave withstand.Fighting for your country's honor,Now to gallant deeds aspire;Helmsman, bear us down upon her,Gunner, give the word to fire!"Then yardarm and yardarm meeting,Strait began the dismal fray,Cannon mouths, each other greeting,Belched their smoky flames away:Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,That from Barney's cannons flew,Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,Killed and wounded half her crew.Captain Rogers strove to rallyBut they from their quarters fled,While the roaring Hyder AliCovered o'er his decks with dead.When from their tops their dead men tumbled,And the streams of blood did flow,Then their proudest hopes were humbledBy their brave inferior foe.All aghast, and all confounded,They beheld their champions fall,And their captain, sorely wounded,Bade them quick for quarters call.Then the Monk's proud flag descended,And her cannon ceased to roar;By her crew no more defended,She confessed the contest o'er.Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,You have humbled one proud foe,No brave action this surpasses,Fame shall tell the nation so—Thus be Britain's woes completed,Thus abridged her cruel reign,Till she ever, thus defeated,Yields the sceptre of the main.Philip Freneau.
O'er the waste of waters cruising,Long the General Monk had reigned;All subduing, all reducing,None her lawless rage restrained:Many a brave and hearty fellowYielding to this warlike foe,When her guns began to bellowStruck his humbled colors low.But grown bold with long successes,Leaving the wide watery way,She, a stranger to distresses,Came to cruise within Cape May:"Now we soon (said Captain Rogers)Shall their men of commerce meet;In our hold we'll have them lodgers,We shall capture half their fleet."Lo! I see their van appearing—Back our topsails to the mast—They toward us full are steeringWith a gentle western blast:I've a list of all their cargoes,All their guns, and all their men:I am sure these modern ArgosCan't escape us one in ten:"Yonder comes the Charming SallySailing with the General Greene—First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,Taking her is taking them:She intends to give us battle,Bearing down with all her sail—Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!To take her we cannot fail."Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder,Soon shall terrify this foe;We shall maul her, we shall wound her,Bringing rebel colors low."—While he thus anticipatedConquests that he could not gain,He in the Cape May channel waitedFor the ship that caused his pain.Captain Barney then preparing,Thus addressed his gallant crew—"Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,Let your hearts be firm and true;This is a proud English cruiser,Roving up and down the main,We must fight her—must reduce her,Though our decks be strewed with slain."Let who will be the survivor,We must conquer or must die,We must take her up the river,Whate'er comes of you or I:Though she shows most formidableWith her eighteen pointed nines,And her quarters clad in sable,Let us balk her proud designs."With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixesWe will face that daring band;Let no dangers damp your courage,Nothing can the brave withstand.Fighting for your country's honor,Now to gallant deeds aspire;Helmsman, bear us down upon her,Gunner, give the word to fire!"Then yardarm and yardarm meeting,Strait began the dismal fray,Cannon mouths, each other greeting,Belched their smoky flames away:Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,That from Barney's cannons flew,Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,Killed and wounded half her crew.Captain Rogers strove to rallyBut they from their quarters fled,While the roaring Hyder AliCovered o'er his decks with dead.When from their tops their dead men tumbled,And the streams of blood did flow,Then their proudest hopes were humbledBy their brave inferior foe.All aghast, and all confounded,They beheld their champions fall,And their captain, sorely wounded,Bade them quick for quarters call.Then the Monk's proud flag descended,And her cannon ceased to roar;By her crew no more defended,She confessed the contest o'er.Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,You have humbled one proud foe,No brave action this surpasses,Fame shall tell the nation so—Thus be Britain's woes completed,Thus abridged her cruel reign,Till she ever, thus defeated,Yields the sceptre of the main.Philip Freneau.
O'er the waste of waters cruising,Long the General Monk had reigned;All subduing, all reducing,None her lawless rage restrained:Many a brave and hearty fellowYielding to this warlike foe,When her guns began to bellowStruck his humbled colors low.
But grown bold with long successes,Leaving the wide watery way,She, a stranger to distresses,Came to cruise within Cape May:"Now we soon (said Captain Rogers)Shall their men of commerce meet;In our hold we'll have them lodgers,We shall capture half their fleet.
"Lo! I see their van appearing—Back our topsails to the mast—They toward us full are steeringWith a gentle western blast:I've a list of all their cargoes,All their guns, and all their men:I am sure these modern ArgosCan't escape us one in ten:
"Yonder comes the Charming SallySailing with the General Greene—First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,Taking her is taking them:She intends to give us battle,Bearing down with all her sail—Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!To take her we cannot fail.
"Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder,Soon shall terrify this foe;We shall maul her, we shall wound her,Bringing rebel colors low."—While he thus anticipatedConquests that he could not gain,He in the Cape May channel waitedFor the ship that caused his pain.
Captain Barney then preparing,Thus addressed his gallant crew—"Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,Let your hearts be firm and true;This is a proud English cruiser,Roving up and down the main,We must fight her—must reduce her,Though our decks be strewed with slain.
"Let who will be the survivor,We must conquer or must die,We must take her up the river,Whate'er comes of you or I:Though she shows most formidableWith her eighteen pointed nines,And her quarters clad in sable,Let us balk her proud designs.
"With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixesWe will face that daring band;Let no dangers damp your courage,Nothing can the brave withstand.Fighting for your country's honor,Now to gallant deeds aspire;Helmsman, bear us down upon her,Gunner, give the word to fire!"
Then yardarm and yardarm meeting,Strait began the dismal fray,Cannon mouths, each other greeting,Belched their smoky flames away:Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,That from Barney's cannons flew,Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,Killed and wounded half her crew.
Captain Rogers strove to rallyBut they from their quarters fled,While the roaring Hyder AliCovered o'er his decks with dead.When from their tops their dead men tumbled,And the streams of blood did flow,Then their proudest hopes were humbledBy their brave inferior foe.
All aghast, and all confounded,They beheld their champions fall,And their captain, sorely wounded,Bade them quick for quarters call.Then the Monk's proud flag descended,And her cannon ceased to roar;By her crew no more defended,She confessed the contest o'er.
Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,You have humbled one proud foe,No brave action this surpasses,Fame shall tell the nation so—Thus be Britain's woes completed,Thus abridged her cruel reign,Till she ever, thus defeated,Yields the sceptre of the main.
Philip Freneau.
The last naval action of the war occurred December 19, 1782, when the American ship, South Carolina, forty guns, was chased and captured, off the Delaware, by the British ships Quebec, Diomede, and Astrea, carrying ninety-eight guns. A few days later a ballad describing the affair appeared in the loyalist papers as a letter "from a dejected Jonathan, a prisoner taken in the South Carolina, to his brother Ned at Philadelphia."
The last naval action of the war occurred December 19, 1782, when the American ship, South Carolina, forty guns, was chased and captured, off the Delaware, by the British ships Quebec, Diomede, and Astrea, carrying ninety-eight guns. A few days later a ballad describing the affair appeared in the loyalist papers as a letter "from a dejected Jonathan, a prisoner taken in the South Carolina, to his brother Ned at Philadelphia."
THE SOUTH CAROLINA
[December 19, 1782]
My dear brother Ned,We are knock'd on the head,No more let America boast;We may all go to bed,And that's enough said,For the South Carolina we've lost.The pride of our eyes,I swear is a prize,You never will see her again,Unless thro' surprise,You are brought where she lies,A prisoner from the false main.Oh Lord! what a sight!—I was struck with affright,When the Diomede's shot round us fell,I feared that in spite,They'd have slain us outright,And sent us directly to h—l.The Quebec did fire,Or I'm a curs'd liar,And the Astrea came up apace;We could not retireFrom the confounded fire,They all were so eager in chase.The Diomede's shotWas damnation hot,She was several times in a blaze;It was not my lotTo go then to pot,But I veow, I was struck with amaze.And Ned, may I die,Or be pok'd in a sty,If ever I venture againWhere bullets do fly,And the wounded do cry,Tormented with anguish and pain.The Hope, I can tell,And the brig Constance fell,I swear, and I veow, in our sight;The first I can say,Was taken by day,But the latter was taken at night.I die to relateWhat has been our fate,How sadly our navies are shrunk;The pride of our StateBegins to abate,For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.The Congress must bend,We shall fall in the end,For the curs'd British sarpents are tough;But, I think as you find,I have enough penn'dOf such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.Yet how vexing to findWe are left all behind,That by sad disappointment we're cross'd;Ah, fortune unkind!Thou afflicted'st my mind,When the South Carolina we lost.Our enemy vile,Cunning Digby does smile,Is pleasèd at our mischance;He useth each wileOur fleets to beguile,And to check our commerce with France.No more as a friend,Our ships to defend,Of South Carolina we boast;As a foe in the end,She will us attend,For the South Carolina we've lost.
My dear brother Ned,We are knock'd on the head,No more let America boast;We may all go to bed,And that's enough said,For the South Carolina we've lost.The pride of our eyes,I swear is a prize,You never will see her again,Unless thro' surprise,You are brought where she lies,A prisoner from the false main.Oh Lord! what a sight!—I was struck with affright,When the Diomede's shot round us fell,I feared that in spite,They'd have slain us outright,And sent us directly to h—l.The Quebec did fire,Or I'm a curs'd liar,And the Astrea came up apace;We could not retireFrom the confounded fire,They all were so eager in chase.The Diomede's shotWas damnation hot,She was several times in a blaze;It was not my lotTo go then to pot,But I veow, I was struck with amaze.And Ned, may I die,Or be pok'd in a sty,If ever I venture againWhere bullets do fly,And the wounded do cry,Tormented with anguish and pain.The Hope, I can tell,And the brig Constance fell,I swear, and I veow, in our sight;The first I can say,Was taken by day,But the latter was taken at night.I die to relateWhat has been our fate,How sadly our navies are shrunk;The pride of our StateBegins to abate,For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.The Congress must bend,We shall fall in the end,For the curs'd British sarpents are tough;But, I think as you find,I have enough penn'dOf such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.Yet how vexing to findWe are left all behind,That by sad disappointment we're cross'd;Ah, fortune unkind!Thou afflicted'st my mind,When the South Carolina we lost.Our enemy vile,Cunning Digby does smile,Is pleasèd at our mischance;He useth each wileOur fleets to beguile,And to check our commerce with France.No more as a friend,Our ships to defend,Of South Carolina we boast;As a foe in the end,She will us attend,For the South Carolina we've lost.
My dear brother Ned,We are knock'd on the head,No more let America boast;We may all go to bed,And that's enough said,For the South Carolina we've lost.
The pride of our eyes,I swear is a prize,You never will see her again,Unless thro' surprise,You are brought where she lies,A prisoner from the false main.
Oh Lord! what a sight!—I was struck with affright,When the Diomede's shot round us fell,I feared that in spite,They'd have slain us outright,And sent us directly to h—l.
The Quebec did fire,Or I'm a curs'd liar,And the Astrea came up apace;We could not retireFrom the confounded fire,They all were so eager in chase.
The Diomede's shotWas damnation hot,She was several times in a blaze;It was not my lotTo go then to pot,But I veow, I was struck with amaze.
And Ned, may I die,Or be pok'd in a sty,If ever I venture againWhere bullets do fly,And the wounded do cry,Tormented with anguish and pain.
The Hope, I can tell,And the brig Constance fell,I swear, and I veow, in our sight;The first I can say,Was taken by day,But the latter was taken at night.
I die to relateWhat has been our fate,How sadly our navies are shrunk;The pride of our StateBegins to abate,For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.
The Congress must bend,We shall fall in the end,For the curs'd British sarpents are tough;But, I think as you find,I have enough penn'dOf such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.
Yet how vexing to findWe are left all behind,That by sad disappointment we're cross'd;Ah, fortune unkind!Thou afflicted'st my mind,When the South Carolina we lost.
Our enemy vile,Cunning Digby does smile,Is pleasèd at our mischance;He useth each wileOur fleets to beguile,And to check our commerce with France.
No more as a friend,Our ships to defend,Of South Carolina we boast;As a foe in the end,She will us attend,For the South Carolina we've lost.
NEW YORK AND THE "NEUTRAL GROUND"
For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth,Sir Henry Clintonremained cooped up in New York, while Washington, established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him. The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put to work on the fortifications.
For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth,Sir Henry Clintonremained cooped up in New York, while Washington, established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him. The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put to work on the fortifications.
SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES
[1779]
Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!For the sake of our King,Come labor and sing.You left all you had for his honor and glory,And he will remember the suffering Tory.We have, it is true,Some small work to do;But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,And never regard what the rebels may say,But throw off your jerkins and labor away.To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,To pull down old houses and dig the canal,To build and destroy,Be this your employ,In the daytime to work at our fortifications,And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.The King wants your aid,Not empty parade;Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,The French and the rebels are coming next summer,And the forts we must buildThough the Tories are killed.Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.If York we can hold,I'll have you enroll'd;And after you're dead, your names shall be read,As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.Then scour up your mortars,And stand to your quarters,'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;Their hearts should not fail 'em,No balls will assail 'em,Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.Philip Freneau.
Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!For the sake of our King,Come labor and sing.You left all you had for his honor and glory,And he will remember the suffering Tory.We have, it is true,Some small work to do;But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,And never regard what the rebels may say,But throw off your jerkins and labor away.To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,To pull down old houses and dig the canal,To build and destroy,Be this your employ,In the daytime to work at our fortifications,And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.The King wants your aid,Not empty parade;Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,The French and the rebels are coming next summer,And the forts we must buildThough the Tories are killed.Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.If York we can hold,I'll have you enroll'd;And after you're dead, your names shall be read,As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.Then scour up your mortars,And stand to your quarters,'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;Their hearts should not fail 'em,No balls will assail 'em,Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.Philip Freneau.
Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!For the sake of our King,Come labor and sing.You left all you had for his honor and glory,And he will remember the suffering Tory.We have, it is true,Some small work to do;But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,And never regard what the rebels may say,But throw off your jerkins and labor away.
To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,To pull down old houses and dig the canal,To build and destroy,Be this your employ,In the daytime to work at our fortifications,And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.The King wants your aid,Not empty parade;Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.
Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,The French and the rebels are coming next summer,And the forts we must buildThough the Tories are killed.Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.If York we can hold,I'll have you enroll'd;And after you're dead, your names shall be read,As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.
'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.Then scour up your mortars,And stand to your quarters,'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;Their hearts should not fail 'em,No balls will assail 'em,Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.
Philip Freneau.
On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington, nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by storm.
On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington, nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by storm.
THE STORMING OF STONY POINT
[July 16, 1779]
Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,Night on the stars of their battle-flag,Threading the maze of the dark morassUnder the frown of the Thunder Crag;Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,Grim in the promise of work to do."Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!Let not a whisper your march betray!Out with the flint from the musket lock!Now! let the bayonet find the way!""Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.Swift came the shot of the waking foe.Bright flashed the axe of the PioneerSmashing the abatis, blow on blow.Little they tarried for British might!Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once moreSentinel giants of Freedom's throne,Massive and proud! to the Eastern shoreBellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"Echo our cheers for the Men of old!Shout for the Hero who led his bandBraving the death that his heart foretoldOver the parapet, "spear in hand!"Arthur Guiterman.
Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,Night on the stars of their battle-flag,Threading the maze of the dark morassUnder the frown of the Thunder Crag;Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,Grim in the promise of work to do."Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!Let not a whisper your march betray!Out with the flint from the musket lock!Now! let the bayonet find the way!""Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.Swift came the shot of the waking foe.Bright flashed the axe of the PioneerSmashing the abatis, blow on blow.Little they tarried for British might!Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once moreSentinel giants of Freedom's throne,Massive and proud! to the Eastern shoreBellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"Echo our cheers for the Men of old!Shout for the Hero who led his bandBraving the death that his heart foretoldOver the parapet, "spear in hand!"Arthur Guiterman.
Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,Night on the stars of their battle-flag,Threading the maze of the dark morassUnder the frown of the Thunder Crag;
Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,Grim in the promise of work to do.
"Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!Let not a whisper your march betray!Out with the flint from the musket lock!Now! let the bayonet find the way!"
"Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.Swift came the shot of the waking foe.Bright flashed the axe of the PioneerSmashing the abatis, blow on blow.
Little they tarried for British might!Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!
Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once moreSentinel giants of Freedom's throne,Massive and proud! to the Eastern shoreBellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"
Echo our cheers for the Men of old!Shout for the Hero who led his bandBraving the death that his heart foretoldOver the parapet, "spear in hand!"
Arthur Guiterman.
WAYNE AT STONY POINT
[July 16, 1779]
'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fenFile upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.Hark,—the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry,To arms!Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are setNow at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,—Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!Forward, my braves!he cries, and the heroes hearten again;Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!Die!—did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime!Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more brightThan his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.Clinton Scollard.
'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fenFile upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.Hark,—the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry,To arms!Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are setNow at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,—Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!Forward, my braves!he cries, and the heroes hearten again;Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!Die!—did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime!Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more brightThan his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.Clinton Scollard.
'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.
Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fenFile upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.
Hark,—the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry,To arms!Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are setNow at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!
Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,—Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!Forward, my braves!he cries, and the heroes hearten again;Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!
Die!—did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime!Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more brightThan his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.
Clinton Scollard.
The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours with her.
The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours with her.
AARON BURR'S WOOING