CHAPTER VIII

'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town,For Lee was beating a wild retreat;The British were riding the Yankees down,And panic was pressing on flying feet.Galloping down like a hurricaneWashington rode with his sword swung high,Mighty as he of the Trojan plainFired by a courage from the sky."Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried.And a bombardier made swift reply.Wheeling his cannon into the tide,He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.Molly Pitcher sprang to his side,Fired as she saw her husband do.Telling the king in his stubborn prideWomen like men to their homes are true.Washington rode from the bloody frayUp to the gun that a woman manned."Molly Pitcher, you saved the day,"He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.He named her sergeant with manly praise,While her war-brown face was wet with tears—A woman has ever a woman's ways,And the army was wild with cheers.Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town,For Lee was beating a wild retreat;The British were riding the Yankees down,And panic was pressing on flying feet.

Galloping down like a hurricaneWashington rode with his sword swung high,Mighty as he of the Trojan plainFired by a courage from the sky.

"Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried.And a bombardier made swift reply.Wheeling his cannon into the tide,He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.

Molly Pitcher sprang to his side,Fired as she saw her husband do.Telling the king in his stubborn prideWomen like men to their homes are true.

Washington rode from the bloody frayUp to the gun that a woman manned."Molly Pitcher, you saved the day,"He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.

He named her sergeant with manly praise,While her war-brown face was wet with tears—A woman has ever a woman's ways,And the army was wild with cheers.

Kate Brownlee Sherwood.

MOLLY PITCHER

All day the great guns barked and roared;All day the big balls screeched and soared;All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim,Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim,Sweet Molly labored with courage high,With steady hand and watchful eye,Till the day was ours, and the sinking sunLooked down on the field of Monmouth won,And Molly standing beside her gun.Now, Molly, rest your weary arm!Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm.Now, woman, bow your aching head,And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!Next day on that field so hardly won,Stately and calm stands Washington,And looks where our gallant Greene doth leadA figure clad in motley weed—A soldier's cap and a soldier's coatMasking a woman's petticoat.He greets our Molly in kindly wise;He bids her raise her tearful eyes;And now he hails her before them allComrade and soldier, whate'er befall,"And since she has played a man's full part,A man's reward for her loyal heart!And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's nameBe writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue!Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you!Sweet honor's roll will aye be richerTo hold the name of Molly Pitcher.Laura E. Richards.

Now, Molly, rest your weary arm!Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm.Now, woman, bow your aching head,And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!

Next day on that field so hardly won,Stately and calm stands Washington,And looks where our gallant Greene doth leadA figure clad in motley weed—A soldier's cap and a soldier's coatMasking a woman's petticoat.He greets our Molly in kindly wise;He bids her raise her tearful eyes;And now he hails her before them allComrade and soldier, whate'er befall,"And since she has played a man's full part,A man's reward for her loyal heart!And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's nameBe writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"

Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue!Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you!Sweet honor's roll will aye be richerTo hold the name of Molly Pitcher.

Laura E. Richards.

About the middle of July, a strong French fleet, commanded by Count D'Estaing, arrived off Sandy Hook, bringing with it M. Gérard, the first minister from France to the United States. It was found that the ships could not pass the bar at the mouth of New York harbor, and it was decided to attempt the capture of the British force which held Newport, R. I., but the expedition proved a failure, and the French sailed away to Boston to refit.

YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND

[August, 1778]

From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came,To Congress in this town, sir,They bow'd to him, and he to them,And then they all sat down, sir.Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coupYou shall bientôt behold, sir;This was believ'd as gospel true,And Jonathan felt bold, sir.So Yankee Doodle did forgetThe sound of British drum, sir,How oft it made him quake and sweat,In spite of Yankee rum, sir.He took his wallet on his back,His rifle on his shoulder,And veow'd Rhode Island to attackBefore he was much older.In dread array their tatter'd crewAdvanc'd with colors spread, sir,Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo,King Hancock at their head, sir.What numbers bravely cross'd the seas,I cannot well determine,A swarm of rebels and of fleas,And every other vermin.Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,For all flesh only grass is,A plenteous store they therefore boughtOf whiskey and molasses.They swore they'd makebold Pigotsqueak,So did their good ally, sir,And take him pris'ner in a week,But that was all my eye, sir.As Jonathan so much desir'dTo shine in martial story,D'Estaing with politesse retir'd,To leave him all the glory.He left him what was better yet,At least it was more use, sir,He left him for a quick retreatA very good excuse, sir.To stay, unless he rul'd the sea,He thought would not be right, sir,And Continental troops, said he,On islands should not fight, sir.Another cause with these combin'dTo throw him in the dumps, sir,For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,And made him stir his stumps, sir.

From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came,To Congress in this town, sir,They bow'd to him, and he to them,And then they all sat down, sir.

Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coupYou shall bientôt behold, sir;This was believ'd as gospel true,And Jonathan felt bold, sir.

So Yankee Doodle did forgetThe sound of British drum, sir,How oft it made him quake and sweat,In spite of Yankee rum, sir.

He took his wallet on his back,His rifle on his shoulder,And veow'd Rhode Island to attackBefore he was much older.

In dread array their tatter'd crewAdvanc'd with colors spread, sir,Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo,King Hancock at their head, sir.

What numbers bravely cross'd the seas,I cannot well determine,A swarm of rebels and of fleas,And every other vermin.

Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,For all flesh only grass is,A plenteous store they therefore boughtOf whiskey and molasses.

They swore they'd makebold Pigotsqueak,So did their good ally, sir,And take him pris'ner in a week,But that was all my eye, sir.

As Jonathan so much desir'dTo shine in martial story,D'Estaing with politesse retir'd,To leave him all the glory.

He left him what was better yet,At least it was more use, sir,He left him for a quick retreatA very good excuse, sir.

To stay, unless he rul'd the sea,He thought would not be right, sir,And Continental troops, said he,On islands should not fight, sir.

Another cause with these combin'dTo throw him in the dumps, sir,For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,And made him stir his stumps, sir.

Lord Howe came up, soon afterwards, with the British fleet, and made a pretence of blockading the French in Boston harbor, but prudently withdrew when he saw the French were ready to putto sea again. The latter abandoned all attempt to coöperate with the Americans and sailed away for the West Indies.

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE

[September, 1778]

When the French fleet layIn Massachusetts bayIn that dayWhen the British squadron madeIts impudent paradeOf blockade;All along and up and downThe harbor of the town,—The brave, proud townThat had fought with all its mightIts bold, brave fightFor the right,To win its way aloneAnd hold and rule its own,Such a groanFrom the stanch hearts and stoutOf the Yankees there went out:But to routThe British lion thenWere maddest folly, whenOne to tenTheir gallant allies lay,Scant of powder, day by dayIn the bay.Chafing thus, impatient, sore,One day along the shoreSlowly boreA clipper schooner, wornAnd rough and forlorn,With its tornSails fluttering in the air:The British sailors stareAt her there,So cool and unafraid."What! she's running the blockade,The jade!"They all at once roar out,Then—"Damn the Yankee lout!"They shout.Athwart her bows red hotThey send a challenge shot;But notAn inch to right or left she veers,Straight on and on she steers,Nor hearsChallenge or shout, untilRings forth with British willA shrill"Heave to!" Then sharp and shortQuestion and quick retortMake British sport."What is it that you say,—Where do I hail from pray,What is my cargo, eh?"My cargo? I'll allowYou can hear 'em crowin' now,At the bow."And I've long-faced gentry too,For passengers and crew,Just a few,"To fatten up, you know,For home use, and a showOf garden sass and so."And from Taunton town I hail;Good Lord, it was a galeWhen I set sail!"The British captain laughtAs he leaned there abaft:"'Tis a harmless craft,"And a harmless fellow too,With his long-faced gentry crew;Let him through,"He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!"Sounded forth, and there spedDown the redSunset track, unafraid,Straight through the blockade,This jadeOf a harmless craft,Packed full to her draught,Fore and aft,With powder and shot,One day when, red hotThe British gotTheir full share and moreOf this cargo, they swore,With a roar,At the trick she had played,This "damned Yankee jade"Who had run the blockade!Nora Perry.

When the French fleet layIn Massachusetts bayIn that day

When the British squadron madeIts impudent paradeOf blockade;

All along and up and downThe harbor of the town,—The brave, proud town

That had fought with all its mightIts bold, brave fightFor the right,

To win its way aloneAnd hold and rule its own,Such a groan

From the stanch hearts and stoutOf the Yankees there went out:But to rout

The British lion thenWere maddest folly, whenOne to ten

Their gallant allies lay,Scant of powder, day by dayIn the bay.

Chafing thus, impatient, sore,One day along the shoreSlowly bore

A clipper schooner, wornAnd rough and forlorn,With its torn

Sails fluttering in the air:The British sailors stareAt her there,

So cool and unafraid."What! she's running the blockade,The jade!"

They all at once roar out,Then—"Damn the Yankee lout!"They shout.

Athwart her bows red hotThey send a challenge shot;But not

An inch to right or left she veers,Straight on and on she steers,Nor hears

Challenge or shout, untilRings forth with British willA shrill

"Heave to!" Then sharp and shortQuestion and quick retortMake British sport.

"What is it that you say,—Where do I hail from pray,What is my cargo, eh?

"My cargo? I'll allowYou can hear 'em crowin' now,At the bow.

"And I've long-faced gentry too,For passengers and crew,Just a few,

"To fatten up, you know,For home use, and a showOf garden sass and so.

"And from Taunton town I hail;Good Lord, it was a galeWhen I set sail!"

The British captain laughtAs he leaned there abaft:"'Tis a harmless craft,

"And a harmless fellow too,With his long-faced gentry crew;Let him through,"

He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!"Sounded forth, and there spedDown the red

Sunset track, unafraid,Straight through the blockade,This jade

Of a harmless craft,Packed full to her draught,Fore and aft,

With powder and shot,One day when, red hotThe British got

Their full share and moreOf this cargo, they swore,With a roar,

At the trick she had played,This "damned Yankee jade"Who had run the blockade!

Nora Perry.

The abortive expedition against Rhode Island practically ended the war at the north, and for a time the scene of activity was transferred to the frontier. The Indians had naturally allied themselves with the British at the beginning of the war, and early in September, 1777, attacked Fort Henry, near Wheeling, but were beaten off after a desperate fight, during which the garrison was saved by the famous exploit of Elizabeth Zane.

BETTY ZANE

[September, 1777]

Women are timid, cower and shrinkAt show of danger, some folk think;But men there are who for their livesDare not so far asperse their wives.We let that pass—so much is clear,Though little perils they may fear,When greater perils men environ,Then women show a front of iron;And, gentle in their manner, theyDo bold things in a quiet way,And so our wondering praise obtain,As on a time did Betty Zane.A century since, out in the West,A block-house was by Girty pressed—Girty, the renegade, the dreadOf all that border, fiercely ledFive hundred Wyandots, to gainPlunder and scalp-locks from the slain;And in this hold—Fort Henry then,But Wheeling now—twelve boys and menGuarded with watchful ward and careWomen and prattling children there,Against their rude and savage foes,And Betty Zane was one of those.There had been forty-two at firstWhen Girty on the border burst;But most of those who meant to stayAnd keep the Wyandots at bay,Outside by savage wiles were lured,And ball and tomahawk endured,Till few were left the place to hold,And some were boys and some were old;But all could use the rifle well,And vainly from the Indians fell,On puncheon roof and timber wall,The fitful shower of leaden ball.NowBetty's brothersand her sireWere with her in this ring of fire,And she was ready, in her way,To aid their labor day by day,In all a quiet maiden might.To mould the bullets for the fight,And, quick to note and so report,Watch every act outside the fort;Or, peering through the loopholes, seeEach phase of savage strategy—These were her tasks, and thus the maidThe toil-worn garrison could aid.Still, drearily the fight went onUntil a week had nearly gone,When it was told—a whisper first,And then in loud alarm it burst—Their powder scarce was growing; theyKnew where a keg unopened layOutside the fort at Zane's—what now?Their leader stood with anxious brow.It must be had at any cost,Or toil and fort and lives were lost.Some one must do that work of fear;What man of men would volunteer?Two offered, and so earnest they,Neither his purpose would give way;And Shepherd, who commanded, dareNot pick or choose between the pair.But ere they settled on the oneBy whom the errand should be done,Young Betty interposed, and said,"Let me essay the task instead.Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane,A useless woman, should be slain;But death, if dealt on one of those,Gives too much vantage to our foes."Her father smiled with pleasure grim—Her pluck gave painful pride to him;And while her brothers clamored "No!"He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go!She'll do it at less risk than you;But keep her steady in your view,And be your rifles shields for her.If yonder foe make step or stir,Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,And so you'll serve her in her need.Now I recover from surprise,I think our Betty's purpose wise."The gate was opened, on she sped;The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said,And wondered at her purpose, tillShe gained that log-hut by the hill.But when, in apron wrapped, the caskShe backward bore, to close her task,The foemen saw her aim at last,And poured their fire upon her fast.Bullet on bullet near her fell,While rang the Indians' angry yell;But safely through that whirring rain,Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.They filled their horns, both boys and men,And so began the fight again.Girty, who there so long had stayed,By this new feat of feet dismayed,Fired houses round and cattle slew,And moved away—the fray was through.But when the story round was toldHow they maintained the leaguered hold,It was agreed, though fame was dueTo all who in that fight were true,The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain,Fell to the share of Betty Zane.A hundred years have passed since then;The savage never came again.Girty is dust; alike are deadThose who assailed and those bestead.Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,A crowded city proudly stands;But of the many who resideBy green Ohio's rushing tide,Not one has lineage prouder than(Be he or poor or rich) the manWho boasts that in his spotless strainMingles the blood of Betty Zane.Thomas Dunn English.

A century since, out in the West,A block-house was by Girty pressed—Girty, the renegade, the dreadOf all that border, fiercely ledFive hundred Wyandots, to gainPlunder and scalp-locks from the slain;And in this hold—Fort Henry then,But Wheeling now—twelve boys and menGuarded with watchful ward and careWomen and prattling children there,Against their rude and savage foes,And Betty Zane was one of those.

There had been forty-two at firstWhen Girty on the border burst;But most of those who meant to stayAnd keep the Wyandots at bay,Outside by savage wiles were lured,And ball and tomahawk endured,Till few were left the place to hold,And some were boys and some were old;But all could use the rifle well,And vainly from the Indians fell,On puncheon roof and timber wall,The fitful shower of leaden ball.

NowBetty's brothersand her sireWere with her in this ring of fire,And she was ready, in her way,To aid their labor day by day,In all a quiet maiden might.To mould the bullets for the fight,And, quick to note and so report,Watch every act outside the fort;Or, peering through the loopholes, seeEach phase of savage strategy—These were her tasks, and thus the maidThe toil-worn garrison could aid.

Still, drearily the fight went onUntil a week had nearly gone,When it was told—a whisper first,And then in loud alarm it burst—Their powder scarce was growing; theyKnew where a keg unopened layOutside the fort at Zane's—what now?Their leader stood with anxious brow.It must be had at any cost,Or toil and fort and lives were lost.Some one must do that work of fear;What man of men would volunteer?

Two offered, and so earnest they,Neither his purpose would give way;And Shepherd, who commanded, dareNot pick or choose between the pair.But ere they settled on the oneBy whom the errand should be done,Young Betty interposed, and said,"Let me essay the task instead.Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane,A useless woman, should be slain;But death, if dealt on one of those,Gives too much vantage to our foes."

Her father smiled with pleasure grim—Her pluck gave painful pride to him;And while her brothers clamored "No!"He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go!She'll do it at less risk than you;But keep her steady in your view,And be your rifles shields for her.If yonder foe make step or stir,Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,And so you'll serve her in her need.Now I recover from surprise,I think our Betty's purpose wise."

The gate was opened, on she sped;The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said,And wondered at her purpose, tillShe gained that log-hut by the hill.But when, in apron wrapped, the caskShe backward bore, to close her task,The foemen saw her aim at last,And poured their fire upon her fast.Bullet on bullet near her fell,While rang the Indians' angry yell;But safely through that whirring rain,Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.

They filled their horns, both boys and men,And so began the fight again.Girty, who there so long had stayed,By this new feat of feet dismayed,Fired houses round and cattle slew,And moved away—the fray was through.But when the story round was toldHow they maintained the leaguered hold,It was agreed, though fame was dueTo all who in that fight were true,The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain,Fell to the share of Betty Zane.

A hundred years have passed since then;The savage never came again.Girty is dust; alike are deadThose who assailed and those bestead.Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,A crowded city proudly stands;But of the many who resideBy green Ohio's rushing tide,Not one has lineage prouder than(Be he or poor or rich) the manWho boasts that in his spotless strainMingles the blood of Betty Zane.

Thomas Dunn English.

Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation.

THE WYOMING MASSACRE

[July 3, 1778]

Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,While she attempts to tellOf poor Wyoming's overthrowBy savage sons of hell.One hundred whites, in painted hue,Whom Butler there did lead,Supported by a barb'rous crewOf the fierce savage breed.The last of June the siege began,And several days it held,While many a brave and valiant manLay slaughtered on the field.Our troops marched out from Forty FortThe third day of July,Three hundred strong, they marched along,The fate of war to try.But oh! alas! three hundred menIs much too small a bandTo meet eight hundred men complete,And make a glorious stand.Four miles they marchèd from the FortTheir enemy to meet,Too far indeed did Butler lead,To keep a safe retreat.And now the fatal hour is come—They bravely charge the foe,And they, with ire, returned the fire,Which prov'd our overthrow.Some minutes they sustained the fire,But ere they were aware,They were encompassed all around,Which prov'd a fatal snare.And then they did attempt to fly,But all was now in vain,Their little host—by far the most—Was by those Indians slain.And as they fly, for quarters cry;Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!Hard to relate—their dreadful fate,No quarters must be given.With bitter cries and mournful sighs,They seek some safe retreat,Run here and there, they know not where,Till awful death they meet.Their piercing cries salute the skies—Mercy is all their cry:"Our souls prepare God's grace to share,We instantly must die."Some men yet found are flying roundSagacious to get clear;In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!They front the flank and rear.And now the foe hath won the day,Methinks their words are these:"Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,Will this your Congress please?"Your pardons crave, you them shall have,Behold them in our hands;We'll all agree to set you free,By dashing out your brains."And as for you, enlisted crew,We'll raise your honors higher:Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,In yonder burning fire."Then naked in those flames they're cast,Too dreadful 'tis to tell,Where they must fry, and burn and die,While cursed Indians yell.Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,—The youth, and hoary head,Were by those monsters murdered there,And numbered with the dead.Methinks I hear some sprightly youthHis mournful state condole:"Oh, that my tender parents knewThe anguish of my soul!"But oh! there's none to save my life,Or heed my dreadful fear;I see the tomahawk and knife,And the more glittering spear."When years ago, I dandled wasUpon my parents' knees,I little thought I should be broughtTo feel such pangs as these."I hoped for many a joyful day,I hoped for riches' store—These golden dreams are fled away;I straight shall be no more."Farewell, fond mother; late I wasLocked up in your embrace;Your heart would ache, and even break,If you could know my case."Farewell, indulgent parents dear,I must resign my breath;I now must die, and here must lieIn the cold arms of death."For oh! the fatal hour is come,I see the bloody knife,—The Lord have mercy on my soul!"And quick resigned his life.A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,Pursue the doleful theme;It is no fancy to delude,Nor transitory dream.The Forty Fort was the resortFor mother and for child,To save them from the cruel rageOf the fierce savage wild.Now, when the news of this defeatHad sounded in our ears,You well may know our dreadful woe,And our foreboding fears.A doleful sound is whispered round,The sun now hides his head;The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,We all shall soon be dead.How can we bear the dreadful spear,The tomahawk and knife?And if we run, the awful gunWill rob us of our life.But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!His hand we must adore.He did assuage the savage rage,That they should kill no more.The gloomy night now gone and past,The sun returns again,The little birds from every bushSeem to lament the slain.With aching hearts and trembling hands,We walkèd here and there,Till through the northern pines we sawA flag approaching near.Some men were chose to meet this flag,Our colonel was the chief,Who soon returned and in his mouthHe brought an olive leaf.This olive leaf was granted life,But then we must no morePretend to fight with Britain's king,Until the wars are o'er.And now poor Westmoreland is lost,Our forts are all resigned,Our buildings they are all on fire,—What shelter can we find?They did agree in black and white,If we'd lay down our arms,That all who pleased might quietlyRemain upon their farms.But oh! they've robbed us of our all,They've taken all but life,And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,If this may end the strife.And now I've told my mournful tale,I hope you'll all agreeTo help our cause and break the jawsOf cruel tyranny.Uriah Terry.

Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,While she attempts to tellOf poor Wyoming's overthrowBy savage sons of hell.

One hundred whites, in painted hue,Whom Butler there did lead,Supported by a barb'rous crewOf the fierce savage breed.

The last of June the siege began,And several days it held,While many a brave and valiant manLay slaughtered on the field.

Our troops marched out from Forty FortThe third day of July,Three hundred strong, they marched along,The fate of war to try.

But oh! alas! three hundred menIs much too small a bandTo meet eight hundred men complete,And make a glorious stand.

Four miles they marchèd from the FortTheir enemy to meet,Too far indeed did Butler lead,To keep a safe retreat.

And now the fatal hour is come—They bravely charge the foe,And they, with ire, returned the fire,Which prov'd our overthrow.

Some minutes they sustained the fire,But ere they were aware,They were encompassed all around,Which prov'd a fatal snare.

And then they did attempt to fly,But all was now in vain,Their little host—by far the most—Was by those Indians slain.

And as they fly, for quarters cry;Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!Hard to relate—their dreadful fate,No quarters must be given.

With bitter cries and mournful sighs,They seek some safe retreat,Run here and there, they know not where,Till awful death they meet.

Their piercing cries salute the skies—Mercy is all their cry:"Our souls prepare God's grace to share,We instantly must die."

Some men yet found are flying roundSagacious to get clear;In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!They front the flank and rear.

And now the foe hath won the day,Methinks their words are these:"Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,Will this your Congress please?

"Your pardons crave, you them shall have,Behold them in our hands;We'll all agree to set you free,By dashing out your brains.

"And as for you, enlisted crew,We'll raise your honors higher:Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,In yonder burning fire."

Then naked in those flames they're cast,Too dreadful 'tis to tell,Where they must fry, and burn and die,While cursed Indians yell.

Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,—The youth, and hoary head,Were by those monsters murdered there,And numbered with the dead.

Methinks I hear some sprightly youthHis mournful state condole:"Oh, that my tender parents knewThe anguish of my soul!

"But oh! there's none to save my life,Or heed my dreadful fear;I see the tomahawk and knife,And the more glittering spear.

"When years ago, I dandled wasUpon my parents' knees,I little thought I should be broughtTo feel such pangs as these.

"I hoped for many a joyful day,I hoped for riches' store—These golden dreams are fled away;I straight shall be no more.

"Farewell, fond mother; late I wasLocked up in your embrace;Your heart would ache, and even break,If you could know my case.

"Farewell, indulgent parents dear,I must resign my breath;I now must die, and here must lieIn the cold arms of death.

"For oh! the fatal hour is come,I see the bloody knife,—The Lord have mercy on my soul!"And quick resigned his life.

A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,Pursue the doleful theme;It is no fancy to delude,Nor transitory dream.

The Forty Fort was the resortFor mother and for child,To save them from the cruel rageOf the fierce savage wild.

Now, when the news of this defeatHad sounded in our ears,You well may know our dreadful woe,And our foreboding fears.

A doleful sound is whispered round,The sun now hides his head;The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,We all shall soon be dead.

How can we bear the dreadful spear,The tomahawk and knife?And if we run, the awful gunWill rob us of our life.

But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!His hand we must adore.He did assuage the savage rage,That they should kill no more.

The gloomy night now gone and past,The sun returns again,The little birds from every bushSeem to lament the slain.

With aching hearts and trembling hands,We walkèd here and there,Till through the northern pines we sawA flag approaching near.

Some men were chose to meet this flag,Our colonel was the chief,Who soon returned and in his mouthHe brought an olive leaf.

This olive leaf was granted life,But then we must no morePretend to fight with Britain's king,Until the wars are o'er.

And now poor Westmoreland is lost,Our forts are all resigned,Our buildings they are all on fire,—What shelter can we find?

They did agree in black and white,If we'd lay down our arms,That all who pleased might quietlyRemain upon their farms.

But oh! they've robbed us of our all,They've taken all but life,And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,If this may end the strife.

And now I've told my mournful tale,I hope you'll all agreeTo help our cause and break the jawsOf cruel tyranny.

Uriah Terry.

THE WAR ON THE WATER

At the outbreak of the Revolution, the colonies had no navy, but a number of cruisers and privateers were soon fitted out, and by the end of 1776 nearly three hundred British vessels had fallen into the hands of the Americans. This activity was kept up during the succeeding year, the cruise of the Fair American, as described in the old ballad of that name, being one of the most noteworthy.

THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN

[1777]

The twenty-second of August,Before the close of day,All hands on board of our privateer,We got her under weigh;We kept the Eastern shore along,For forty leagues or more,Then our departure took for sea,From the isle of Mauhegan shore.Bold Hawthornewas commander,A man of real worth,Old England's cruel tyrannyInduced him to go forth;She, with relentless fury,Was plundering all our coast,And thought, because her strength was great,Our glorious cause was lost.Yet boast not, haughty Britons,Of power and dignity,By land thy conquering armies,Thy matchless strength at sea;Since taught by numerous instancesAmericans can fight,With valor can equip their stand,Your armies put to flight.Now farewell to fair America,Farewell our friends and wives;We trust in Heaven's peculiar careFor to protect their lives;To prosper our intended cruiseUpon the raging main,And to preserve our dearest friendsTill we return again.The wind it being leading,It bore us on our way,As far unto the southwardAs the Gulf of Florida;Where we fell in with a British ship,Bound homeward from the main;We gave her two bow-chasers,And she returned the same.We haulèd up our courses,And so prepared for fight;The contest held four glasses,Until the dusk of night;Then having sprung our main-mast,And had so large a sea,We dropped astern and left our chaseTill the returning day.Next morn we fished our main-mast,The ship still being nigh,All hands made for engaging,Our chance once more to try;But wind and sea being boisterous,Our cannon would not bear,We thought it quite imprudentAnd so we left her there.We cruisèd to the eastward,Near the coast of Portugal,In longitude of twenty-sevenWe saw a lofty sail;We gave her chase, and soon perceivedShe was a British snowStanding for fair America,With troops for General Howe.Our captain did inspect herWith glasses, and he said,"My boys, she means to fight us,But be you not afraid;All hands repair to quarters,See everything is clear,We'll give her a broadside, my boys,As soon as she comes near."She was prepared with nettings,And her men were well secured,And bore directly for us,And put us close on board;When the cannon roared like thunder,And the muskets fired amain,But soon we were alongsideAnd grappled to her chain.And now the scene it altered,The cannon ceased to roar,We fought with swords and boarding-pikesOne glass or something more,Till British pride and gloryNo longer dared to stay,But cut the Yankee grapplings,And quickly bore away.Our case was not so desperateAs plainly might appear;Yet sudden death did enterOn board our privateer.Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons,The valiant and the brave,Fell glorious in the contest,And met a watery grave.Ten other men were woundedAmong our warlike crew,With them our noble captain,To whom all praise is due;To him and all our officersLet's give a hearty cheer;Success to fair AmericaAnd our good privateer.

Bold Hawthornewas commander,A man of real worth,Old England's cruel tyrannyInduced him to go forth;She, with relentless fury,Was plundering all our coast,And thought, because her strength was great,Our glorious cause was lost.

Yet boast not, haughty Britons,Of power and dignity,By land thy conquering armies,Thy matchless strength at sea;Since taught by numerous instancesAmericans can fight,With valor can equip their stand,Your armies put to flight.

Now farewell to fair America,Farewell our friends and wives;We trust in Heaven's peculiar careFor to protect their lives;To prosper our intended cruiseUpon the raging main,And to preserve our dearest friendsTill we return again.

The wind it being leading,It bore us on our way,As far unto the southwardAs the Gulf of Florida;Where we fell in with a British ship,Bound homeward from the main;We gave her two bow-chasers,And she returned the same.

We haulèd up our courses,And so prepared for fight;The contest held four glasses,Until the dusk of night;Then having sprung our main-mast,And had so large a sea,We dropped astern and left our chaseTill the returning day.

Next morn we fished our main-mast,The ship still being nigh,All hands made for engaging,Our chance once more to try;But wind and sea being boisterous,Our cannon would not bear,We thought it quite imprudentAnd so we left her there.

We cruisèd to the eastward,Near the coast of Portugal,In longitude of twenty-sevenWe saw a lofty sail;We gave her chase, and soon perceivedShe was a British snowStanding for fair America,With troops for General Howe.

Our captain did inspect herWith glasses, and he said,"My boys, she means to fight us,But be you not afraid;All hands repair to quarters,See everything is clear,We'll give her a broadside, my boys,As soon as she comes near."

She was prepared with nettings,And her men were well secured,And bore directly for us,And put us close on board;When the cannon roared like thunder,And the muskets fired amain,But soon we were alongsideAnd grappled to her chain.

And now the scene it altered,The cannon ceased to roar,We fought with swords and boarding-pikesOne glass or something more,Till British pride and gloryNo longer dared to stay,But cut the Yankee grapplings,And quickly bore away.

Our case was not so desperateAs plainly might appear;Yet sudden death did enterOn board our privateer.Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons,The valiant and the brave,Fell glorious in the contest,And met a watery grave.

Ten other men were woundedAmong our warlike crew,With them our noble captain,To whom all praise is due;To him and all our officersLet's give a hearty cheer;Success to fair AmericaAnd our good privateer.

The Americans were not without their losses, and one of the most serious occurred early in 1778. On the morning of March 7, the 32-gun frigate Randolph, Captain Nicholas Biddle, while cruising off Barbadoes, fell in with the English 64-gun ship of the line Yarmouth, and attacked immediately. The fight had lasted about an hour when the Randolph's magazine was in some way fired, and the ship blew up. Of the crew of three hundred and fifteen, only four were saved.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE

[March 7, 1778]

What distant thunders rend the skies,What clouds of smoke in volumes rise,What means this dreadful roar!Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,Or Etna's self no more!Shock after shock torments my ear;And lo! two hostile ships appear,Red lightnings round them glow:The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,The Randolph thirty-two—no more—And will she fight this foe!The Randolph soon on Stygian streamsShall coast along the land of dreams,The islands of the dead!But fate, that parts them on the deep,Shall save the Briton, still to weepHis ancient honors fled.Say, who commands that dismal blaze,Where yonder starry streamer plays;Does Mars with Jove engage!'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspiresWith more than mortal rage.Tremendous flash! and hark, the ballDrives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;Her bravest sons expire;Did Mars himself approach so nigh,Even Mars, without disgrace, might flyThe Randolph's fiercer fire.The Briton views his mangled crew,"And shall we strike tothirty-two"(Said Hector, stained with gore);"Shall Britain's flag to these descend—Rise, and the glorious conflict end,Britons, I ask no more!"He spoke—they charged their cannon round,Again the vaulted heavens resound,The Randolph bore it all,Then fixed her pointed cannons true—Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;Britain, the warriors fall.The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,Her boldest heroes dead—She saw amidst her floating slainThe conquering Randolph stem the main—She saw, she turned, and fled!That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,Dear Biddle, had the powers divineBeen kind as thou wert brave;But fate, who doomed thee to expire,Prepared an arrow tipped with fire,And marked a watery grave,And in that hour when conquest cameWinged at his ship a pointed flameThat not evenhecould shun—The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled,The bursting Randolph ruin spread,And lost what honor won.Philip Freneau.

What distant thunders rend the skies,What clouds of smoke in volumes rise,What means this dreadful roar!Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,Or Etna's self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear;And lo! two hostile ships appear,Red lightnings round them glow:The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,The Randolph thirty-two—no more—And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streamsShall coast along the land of dreams,The islands of the dead!But fate, that parts them on the deep,Shall save the Briton, still to weepHis ancient honors fled.

Say, who commands that dismal blaze,Where yonder starry streamer plays;Does Mars with Jove engage!'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspiresWith more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash! and hark, the ballDrives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;Her bravest sons expire;Did Mars himself approach so nigh,Even Mars, without disgrace, might flyThe Randolph's fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew,"And shall we strike tothirty-two"(Said Hector, stained with gore);"Shall Britain's flag to these descend—Rise, and the glorious conflict end,Britons, I ask no more!"

He spoke—they charged their cannon round,Again the vaulted heavens resound,The Randolph bore it all,Then fixed her pointed cannons true—Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;Britain, the warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,Her boldest heroes dead—She saw amidst her floating slainThe conquering Randolph stem the main—She saw, she turned, and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,Dear Biddle, had the powers divineBeen kind as thou wert brave;But fate, who doomed thee to expire,Prepared an arrow tipped with fire,And marked a watery grave,

And in that hour when conquest cameWinged at his ship a pointed flameThat not evenhecould shun—The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled,The bursting Randolph ruin spread,And lost what honor won.

Philip Freneau.

Among the most successful of the Yankee privateers was the Providence, and her most famous exploit was performed in July, 1779, when she attacked a fleet of merchantmen, under convoy of a ship of the line and some cruisers, and captured ten prizes, nine of which, valued at over a million dollars, were got safely to Boston. The Providence was commanded by Abraham Whipple, the hero of the Gaspee exploit and of a hundred others.

THE YANKEE PRIVATEER

[July, 1779]

Come listen and I'll tell youHow first I went to sea,To fight against the BritishAnd earn our liberty.We shipped with Cap'n WhippleWho never knew a fear,The Captain of the Providence,The Yankee Privateer.We sailed and we sailedAnd made good cheer,There were many pretty menOn the Yankee Privateer.The British Lord High AdmiralHe wished old Whipple harm,He wrote that he would hang himAt the end of his yard arm."My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back,"It seems to me it's clearThat if you want to hang him,You must catch your Privateer."We sailed and we sailedAnd made good cheer,For not a British frigateCould come near the Privateer.We sailed to the south'ard,And nothing did we meet,Till we found three British frigatesAnd their West Indian fleet.Old Whipple shut our portsAs we crawled up near,And he sent us all belowOn the Yankee Privateer.So slowly he sailedWe dropped to the rear,And not a soul suspectedThe Yankee Privateer.At night we put the lights outAnd forward we ranAnd silently we boardedThe biggest merchantman.We knocked down the watch,—And the lubbers shook for fear,She's a prize without a shotTo the Yankee Privateer.We sent the prize northWhile we lay nearAnd all day we sleptOn the bold Privateer.For ten nights we followed,And ere the moon rose,Each night a prize we'd takenBeneath the Lion's nose.When the British looked to seeWhy their ships should disappear,They found they had in convoyA Yankee Privateer.But we sailed and sailedAnd made good cheer!Not a coward was on boardOf the Yankee Privateer.The biggest British frigateBore round to give us chase,But though he was the fleeterOld Whipple wouldn't race,Till he'd raked her fore and aft,For the lubbers couldn't steer,Then he showed them the heelsOf the Yankee Privateer.Then we sailed and we sailedAnd we made good cheer,For not a British frigateCould come near the Privateer.Then northward we sailedTo the town we all know,And there lay our prizesAll anchored in a row;And welcome were weTo our friends so dear,And we shared a million dollarsOn the bold Privateer.We'd sailed and we'd sailedAnd we made good cheer,We had all full pocketsOn the bold Privateer.Then we each manned a shipAnd our sails we unfurled,And we bore the Stars and StripesO'er the oceans of the world.From the proud flag of BritainWe swept the seas clear,And we earned our independenceOn the Yankee Privateer.Then landsmen and sailors,One more cheer!Here is three times threeFor the Yankee Privateer!Arthur Hale.

We sailed and we sailedAnd made good cheer,There were many pretty menOn the Yankee Privateer.

The British Lord High AdmiralHe wished old Whipple harm,He wrote that he would hang himAt the end of his yard arm."My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back,"It seems to me it's clearThat if you want to hang him,You must catch your Privateer."

We sailed and we sailedAnd made good cheer,For not a British frigateCould come near the Privateer.

We sailed to the south'ard,And nothing did we meet,Till we found three British frigatesAnd their West Indian fleet.Old Whipple shut our portsAs we crawled up near,And he sent us all belowOn the Yankee Privateer.

So slowly he sailedWe dropped to the rear,And not a soul suspectedThe Yankee Privateer.

At night we put the lights outAnd forward we ranAnd silently we boardedThe biggest merchantman.We knocked down the watch,—And the lubbers shook for fear,She's a prize without a shotTo the Yankee Privateer.

We sent the prize northWhile we lay nearAnd all day we sleptOn the bold Privateer.

For ten nights we followed,And ere the moon rose,Each night a prize we'd takenBeneath the Lion's nose.When the British looked to seeWhy their ships should disappear,They found they had in convoyA Yankee Privateer.

But we sailed and sailedAnd made good cheer!Not a coward was on boardOf the Yankee Privateer.

The biggest British frigateBore round to give us chase,But though he was the fleeterOld Whipple wouldn't race,Till he'd raked her fore and aft,For the lubbers couldn't steer,Then he showed them the heelsOf the Yankee Privateer.

Then we sailed and we sailedAnd we made good cheer,For not a British frigateCould come near the Privateer.

Then northward we sailedTo the town we all know,And there lay our prizesAll anchored in a row;And welcome were weTo our friends so dear,And we shared a million dollarsOn the bold Privateer.

We'd sailed and we'd sailedAnd we made good cheer,We had all full pocketsOn the bold Privateer.

Then we each manned a shipAnd our sails we unfurled,And we bore the Stars and StripesO'er the oceans of the world.From the proud flag of BritainWe swept the seas clear,And we earned our independenceOn the Yankee Privateer.

Then landsmen and sailors,One more cheer!Here is three times threeFor the Yankee Privateer!

Arthur Hale.

The achievements of other American naval captains were soon eclipsed by those of John Paul Jones, a Scotch sailor, settled in Virginia, who, at the outbreak of the war, offered his services to Congress. In 1776, on board the Alfred, in the Delaware River, he raised the first flag of the Revolution,—a pine tree, with a rattlesnake coiled at the foot, and the motto, "Don't tread on me."

PAUL JONES

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