The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines,A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush."Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road."For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home,In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood;And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore,As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by."The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die."The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral.His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,And said that was all; and said that was all.They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,As his words do presage; as his words do presage."Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines,A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush."Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road."For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home,In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood;And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore,As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by."The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die."The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral.His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,And said that was all; and said that was all.They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,As his words do presage; as his words do presage."Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines,A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.
"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road."For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."
The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home,In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.
Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.
He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood;And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore,As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.
An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by."The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral.His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,And said that was all; and said that was all.
They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.
Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.
The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,As his words do presage; as his words do presage.
"Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."
The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."
NATHAN HALE
[September 22, 1776]
To drum-beat and heart-beat,A soldier marches by;There is color in his cheek,There is courage in his eye,Yet to drum-beat and heart-beatIn a moment he must die.By the starlight and moonlight,He seeks the Briton's camp;He hears the rustling flagAnd the armèd sentry's tramp;And the starlight and moonlightHis silent wanderings lamp.With slow tread and still tread,He scans the tented line;And he counts the battery guns,By the gaunt and shadowy pine;And his slow tread and still treadGives no warning sign.The dark wave, the plumed wave,It meets his eager glance;And it sparkles 'neath the stars,Like the glimmer of a lance—A dark wave, a plumed wave,On an emerald expanse.A sharp clang, a still clang,And terror in the sound!For the sentry, falcon-eyed,In the camp a spy hath found;With a sharp clang, a steel clang,The patriot is bound.With calm brow, and steady brow,He listens to his doom;In his look there is no fear,Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;But with calm brow and steady brow,He robes him for the tomb.In the long night, the still night,He kneels upon the sod;And the brutal guards withholdE'en the solemn word of God!In the long night, the still night,He walks where Christ hath trod.'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,He dies upon the tree;And he mourns that he can loseBut one life for Liberty;And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,His spirit wings are free.But his last words, his message-words,They burn, lest friendly eyeShould read how proud and calmA patriot could die,With his last words, his dying words,A soldier's battle-cry.From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,From monument and urn,The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,His tragic fate shall learn;But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leafThe name ofHaleshall burn!Francis Miles Finch.
To drum-beat and heart-beat,A soldier marches by;There is color in his cheek,There is courage in his eye,Yet to drum-beat and heart-beatIn a moment he must die.By the starlight and moonlight,He seeks the Briton's camp;He hears the rustling flagAnd the armèd sentry's tramp;And the starlight and moonlightHis silent wanderings lamp.With slow tread and still tread,He scans the tented line;And he counts the battery guns,By the gaunt and shadowy pine;And his slow tread and still treadGives no warning sign.The dark wave, the plumed wave,It meets his eager glance;And it sparkles 'neath the stars,Like the glimmer of a lance—A dark wave, a plumed wave,On an emerald expanse.A sharp clang, a still clang,And terror in the sound!For the sentry, falcon-eyed,In the camp a spy hath found;With a sharp clang, a steel clang,The patriot is bound.With calm brow, and steady brow,He listens to his doom;In his look there is no fear,Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;But with calm brow and steady brow,He robes him for the tomb.In the long night, the still night,He kneels upon the sod;And the brutal guards withholdE'en the solemn word of God!In the long night, the still night,He walks where Christ hath trod.'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,He dies upon the tree;And he mourns that he can loseBut one life for Liberty;And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,His spirit wings are free.But his last words, his message-words,They burn, lest friendly eyeShould read how proud and calmA patriot could die,With his last words, his dying words,A soldier's battle-cry.From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,From monument and urn,The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,His tragic fate shall learn;But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leafThe name ofHaleshall burn!Francis Miles Finch.
To drum-beat and heart-beat,A soldier marches by;There is color in his cheek,There is courage in his eye,Yet to drum-beat and heart-beatIn a moment he must die.
By the starlight and moonlight,He seeks the Briton's camp;He hears the rustling flagAnd the armèd sentry's tramp;And the starlight and moonlightHis silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread,He scans the tented line;And he counts the battery guns,By the gaunt and shadowy pine;And his slow tread and still treadGives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,It meets his eager glance;And it sparkles 'neath the stars,Like the glimmer of a lance—A dark wave, a plumed wave,On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a still clang,And terror in the sound!For the sentry, falcon-eyed,In the camp a spy hath found;With a sharp clang, a steel clang,The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, and steady brow,He listens to his doom;In his look there is no fear,Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;But with calm brow and steady brow,He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,He kneels upon the sod;And the brutal guards withholdE'en the solemn word of God!In the long night, the still night,He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,He dies upon the tree;And he mourns that he can loseBut one life for Liberty;And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,His spirit wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words,They burn, lest friendly eyeShould read how proud and calmA patriot could die,With his last words, his dying words,A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,From monument and urn,The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,His tragic fate shall learn;But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leafThe name ofHaleshall burn!
Francis Miles Finch.
Washington soon found himself unable to cope with Howe's superior force, retreated across New Jersey, and on December 8 reached the west bank of the Delaware River. The British came up the next day and took a position on the east bank, with their centre at Trenton. Never did America's future look darker than on that Christmas night of 1776.
Washington soon found himself unable to cope with Howe's superior force, retreated across New Jersey, and on December 8 reached the west bank of the Delaware River. The British came up the next day and took a position on the east bank, with their centre at Trenton. Never did America's future look darker than on that Christmas night of 1776.
THE BALLAD OF SWEET P
[December 25, 1776]
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"Painted by Peale, she won renownIn a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;A red rose touched by her finger-tipsAnd a smile held back from her roguish lips.Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight,In clouds of smoke, night after night,Would tell a tale in delighted pride,To cronies, who came from far and wide;Always ending (with candle, he)"And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chanceTo give to the British a Christmas dance.Penwick's house past the outpost stood,Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood.Hessian and British quartered thereSwarmed through chamber and hall and stair.Fires ablaze and candles alight,Soldier and officer feasted that night.The enemy? Safe, with a river between,Black and deadly and fierce and keen;A river of ice and a blinding storm!—So they made them merry and kept them warm.But while they mirth and roistering made,Up in her dormer window stayedMistress Penelope Penwick apart,With fearful thought and sorrowful heart.Night by night had her candle's gleamSent through the dark its hopeful beam.But the nights they came and they passed again,With never a sign from her countrymen;For where beat the heart so brave, so bold,Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold?Penelope's eyes and her candle's lightWere mocked by the storm that Christmas night.But lo, full sudden a missile stungAnd shattered her casement pane and rungAt her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside.She opened her dormer window wide.A wind-swept figure halted below—The ferryman, old and bent and slow.Then a murmur rose upward—only one,Thrilling and powerful—"Washington!"With jest and laughter and candles bright,'Twas two by the stairway clock that night,When Penelope Penwick tripped her down,Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown,With a red rose (cut from her potted bush).There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween,The daintiest thing they e'er had seen!And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet,And patted her little slippered feet."'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P,"I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro,And each for the honor bowed him low.With smiling charm and witching graceShe chose him pranked with officer's laceAnd shining buttons and dangling sword;No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,—Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P!And when it was over, and blood aflame,Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!""We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried."If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,"Let each lay it down at my feet in turn,And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!"What held they all in their love and pride?Straight flew a hand unto every side;Each man had a sword and nothing more,And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.Standing there, in her satin gown,With candlelight on her yellow crown,And at her feet a bank of steel(I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!)Penelope held her rose on high—"I fine each one for a leaf to try!"She plucked the petals and blew them out,A rain of red they fluttered about.Over the floor and through the airRushed the officers here and there;When lo! a cry! The door burst in!"The enemy!" Tumult, terror, and din!Flew a hand unto every side,—Swords?—Penelope, arms thrown wideLeapt that heap of steel before;Swords behind her upon the floor;Facing her countrymen staunch and bold,Who dared the river of death and cold,Who swept them down on a rollicking horde,And found they never a man with sword!And so it happened (but not by chance),In '76 there was given a danceBy a witch with a rose and a satin gown(Painted in Philadelphia town),Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P."Virginia Woodward Cloud.
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"Painted by Peale, she won renownIn a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;A red rose touched by her finger-tipsAnd a smile held back from her roguish lips.Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight,In clouds of smoke, night after night,Would tell a tale in delighted pride,To cronies, who came from far and wide;Always ending (with candle, he)"And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chanceTo give to the British a Christmas dance.Penwick's house past the outpost stood,Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood.Hessian and British quartered thereSwarmed through chamber and hall and stair.Fires ablaze and candles alight,Soldier and officer feasted that night.The enemy? Safe, with a river between,Black and deadly and fierce and keen;A river of ice and a blinding storm!—So they made them merry and kept them warm.But while they mirth and roistering made,Up in her dormer window stayedMistress Penelope Penwick apart,With fearful thought and sorrowful heart.Night by night had her candle's gleamSent through the dark its hopeful beam.But the nights they came and they passed again,With never a sign from her countrymen;For where beat the heart so brave, so bold,Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold?Penelope's eyes and her candle's lightWere mocked by the storm that Christmas night.But lo, full sudden a missile stungAnd shattered her casement pane and rungAt her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside.She opened her dormer window wide.A wind-swept figure halted below—The ferryman, old and bent and slow.Then a murmur rose upward—only one,Thrilling and powerful—"Washington!"With jest and laughter and candles bright,'Twas two by the stairway clock that night,When Penelope Penwick tripped her down,Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown,With a red rose (cut from her potted bush).There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween,The daintiest thing they e'er had seen!And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet,And patted her little slippered feet."'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P,"I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro,And each for the honor bowed him low.With smiling charm and witching graceShe chose him pranked with officer's laceAnd shining buttons and dangling sword;No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,—Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P!And when it was over, and blood aflame,Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!""We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried."If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,"Let each lay it down at my feet in turn,And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!"What held they all in their love and pride?Straight flew a hand unto every side;Each man had a sword and nothing more,And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.Standing there, in her satin gown,With candlelight on her yellow crown,And at her feet a bank of steel(I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!)Penelope held her rose on high—"I fine each one for a leaf to try!"She plucked the petals and blew them out,A rain of red they fluttered about.Over the floor and through the airRushed the officers here and there;When lo! a cry! The door burst in!"The enemy!" Tumult, terror, and din!Flew a hand unto every side,—Swords?—Penelope, arms thrown wideLeapt that heap of steel before;Swords behind her upon the floor;Facing her countrymen staunch and bold,Who dared the river of death and cold,Who swept them down on a rollicking horde,And found they never a man with sword!And so it happened (but not by chance),In '76 there was given a danceBy a witch with a rose and a satin gown(Painted in Philadelphia town),Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P."Virginia Woodward Cloud.
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"Painted by Peale, she won renownIn a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;A red rose touched by her finger-tipsAnd a smile held back from her roguish lips.
Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight,In clouds of smoke, night after night,Would tell a tale in delighted pride,To cronies, who came from far and wide;Always ending (with candle, he)"And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"
The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chanceTo give to the British a Christmas dance.Penwick's house past the outpost stood,Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood.Hessian and British quartered thereSwarmed through chamber and hall and stair.
Fires ablaze and candles alight,Soldier and officer feasted that night.The enemy? Safe, with a river between,Black and deadly and fierce and keen;A river of ice and a blinding storm!—So they made them merry and kept them warm.
But while they mirth and roistering made,Up in her dormer window stayedMistress Penelope Penwick apart,With fearful thought and sorrowful heart.Night by night had her candle's gleamSent through the dark its hopeful beam.
But the nights they came and they passed again,With never a sign from her countrymen;For where beat the heart so brave, so bold,Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold?Penelope's eyes and her candle's lightWere mocked by the storm that Christmas night.
But lo, full sudden a missile stungAnd shattered her casement pane and rungAt her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside.She opened her dormer window wide.A wind-swept figure halted below—The ferryman, old and bent and slow.Then a murmur rose upward—only one,Thrilling and powerful—"Washington!"
With jest and laughter and candles bright,'Twas two by the stairway clock that night,When Penelope Penwick tripped her down,Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown,With a red rose (cut from her potted bush).There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.
She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween,The daintiest thing they e'er had seen!And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet,And patted her little slippered feet."'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P,"I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"
Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro,And each for the honor bowed him low.With smiling charm and witching graceShe chose him pranked with officer's laceAnd shining buttons and dangling sword;No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!
Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,—Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P!And when it was over, and blood aflame,Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!""We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried."If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,
"Let each lay it down at my feet in turn,And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!"What held they all in their love and pride?Straight flew a hand unto every side;Each man had a sword and nothing more,And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.
Standing there, in her satin gown,With candlelight on her yellow crown,And at her feet a bank of steel(I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!)Penelope held her rose on high—"I fine each one for a leaf to try!"
She plucked the petals and blew them out,A rain of red they fluttered about.Over the floor and through the airRushed the officers here and there;When lo! a cry! The door burst in!"The enemy!" Tumult, terror, and din!
Flew a hand unto every side,—Swords?—Penelope, arms thrown wideLeapt that heap of steel before;Swords behind her upon the floor;Facing her countrymen staunch and bold,Who dared the river of death and cold,Who swept them down on a rollicking horde,And found they never a man with sword!
And so it happened (but not by chance),In '76 there was given a danceBy a witch with a rose and a satin gown(Painted in Philadelphia town),Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,Called by her father, "My Sweet P."
Virginia Woodward Cloud.
The British soldiers, thinking the war virtually ended, had grown careless, and Howe and Cornwallis had returned to New York to celebrate Christmas. It was at this juncture that Washington decided to attack. More than ten hours wereconsumed in getting across the river, which was blocked with ice. At daybreak on the 26th, Washington entered Trenton, and surprised the enemy.
The British soldiers, thinking the war virtually ended, had grown careless, and Howe and Cornwallis had returned to New York to celebrate Christmas. It was at this juncture that Washington decided to attack. More than ten hours wereconsumed in getting across the river, which was blocked with ice. At daybreak on the 26th, Washington entered Trenton, and surprised the enemy.
ACROSS THE DELAWARE
The winter night is cold and drear,Along the river's sullen flow;The cruel frost is camping here—The air has living blades of snow.Look! pushing from the icy strand,With ensigns freezing in the air,There sails a small but mighty band,Across the dang'rous Delaware.Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fightThe bayonets of a winter storm?In truth it were a better nightFor blazing fire and blankets warm!We seek to trap a foreign foe,Who fill themselves with stolen fare;We carry freedom as we goAcross the storm-swept Delaware!The night is full of lusty cheerWithin the Hessians' merry camp;And faint and fainter on the earDoth fall the heedless sentry's tramp.O hirelings, this new nation's rageIs something 'tis not well to dare;You are not fitted to engageThese men from o'er the Delaware!A rush—a shout—a clarion call,Salute the early morning's gray:Now, roused invaders, yield or fall:The refuge-land has won the day!Soon shall the glorious news be hurledWherever men have wrongs to bear;For freedom's torch illumes the world,And God has crossed the Delaware!Will Carleton.
The winter night is cold and drear,Along the river's sullen flow;The cruel frost is camping here—The air has living blades of snow.Look! pushing from the icy strand,With ensigns freezing in the air,There sails a small but mighty band,Across the dang'rous Delaware.Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fightThe bayonets of a winter storm?In truth it were a better nightFor blazing fire and blankets warm!We seek to trap a foreign foe,Who fill themselves with stolen fare;We carry freedom as we goAcross the storm-swept Delaware!The night is full of lusty cheerWithin the Hessians' merry camp;And faint and fainter on the earDoth fall the heedless sentry's tramp.O hirelings, this new nation's rageIs something 'tis not well to dare;You are not fitted to engageThese men from o'er the Delaware!A rush—a shout—a clarion call,Salute the early morning's gray:Now, roused invaders, yield or fall:The refuge-land has won the day!Soon shall the glorious news be hurledWherever men have wrongs to bear;For freedom's torch illumes the world,And God has crossed the Delaware!Will Carleton.
The winter night is cold and drear,Along the river's sullen flow;The cruel frost is camping here—The air has living blades of snow.Look! pushing from the icy strand,With ensigns freezing in the air,There sails a small but mighty band,Across the dang'rous Delaware.
Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fightThe bayonets of a winter storm?In truth it were a better nightFor blazing fire and blankets warm!We seek to trap a foreign foe,Who fill themselves with stolen fare;We carry freedom as we goAcross the storm-swept Delaware!
The night is full of lusty cheerWithin the Hessians' merry camp;And faint and fainter on the earDoth fall the heedless sentry's tramp.O hirelings, this new nation's rageIs something 'tis not well to dare;You are not fitted to engageThese men from o'er the Delaware!
A rush—a shout—a clarion call,Salute the early morning's gray:Now, roused invaders, yield or fall:The refuge-land has won the day!Soon shall the glorious news be hurledWherever men have wrongs to bear;For freedom's torch illumes the world,And God has crossed the Delaware!
Will Carleton.
The surprise was complete. Eighteen of the enemy were killed and over a thousand made prisoners, while the American loss was only four. The remainder of the enemy retreated in disorder to Princeton, leaving their sick and wounded, and all their heavy arms and baggage behind them.
The surprise was complete. Eighteen of the enemy were killed and over a thousand made prisoners, while the American loss was only four. The remainder of the enemy retreated in disorder to Princeton, leaving their sick and wounded, and all their heavy arms and baggage behind them.
THE BATTLE OF TRENTON
On Christmas-day in seventy-six,Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,For Trenton marched away.The Delaware see! the boats below!The light obscured by hail and snow!But no signs of dismay.Our object was the Hessian band,That dared invade fair freedom's land,And quarter in that place.Great Washington he led us on,Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,Had never known disgrace.In silent march we passed the night,Each soldier panting for the fight,Though quite benumbed with frost.Greene on the left at six began,The right was led by SullivanWho ne'er a moment lost.Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,That rebels risen from the deadWere marching into town.Some scampered here, some scampered there,And some for action did prepare;But soon their arms laid down.Twelve hundred servile miscreants,With all their colors, guns, and tents,Were trophies of the day.The frolic o'er, the bright canteen,In centre, front, and rear was seenDriving fatigue away.Now, brothers of the patriot bands,Let's sing deliverance from the handsOf arbitrary sway.And as our life is but a span,Let's touch the tankard while we can,In memory of that day.
On Christmas-day in seventy-six,Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,For Trenton marched away.The Delaware see! the boats below!The light obscured by hail and snow!But no signs of dismay.Our object was the Hessian band,That dared invade fair freedom's land,And quarter in that place.Great Washington he led us on,Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,Had never known disgrace.In silent march we passed the night,Each soldier panting for the fight,Though quite benumbed with frost.Greene on the left at six began,The right was led by SullivanWho ne'er a moment lost.Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,That rebels risen from the deadWere marching into town.Some scampered here, some scampered there,And some for action did prepare;But soon their arms laid down.Twelve hundred servile miscreants,With all their colors, guns, and tents,Were trophies of the day.The frolic o'er, the bright canteen,In centre, front, and rear was seenDriving fatigue away.Now, brothers of the patriot bands,Let's sing deliverance from the handsOf arbitrary sway.And as our life is but a span,Let's touch the tankard while we can,In memory of that day.
On Christmas-day in seventy-six,Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,For Trenton marched away.The Delaware see! the boats below!The light obscured by hail and snow!But no signs of dismay.
Our object was the Hessian band,That dared invade fair freedom's land,And quarter in that place.Great Washington he led us on,Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,Had never known disgrace.
In silent march we passed the night,Each soldier panting for the fight,Though quite benumbed with frost.Greene on the left at six began,The right was led by SullivanWho ne'er a moment lost.
Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,That rebels risen from the deadWere marching into town.Some scampered here, some scampered there,And some for action did prepare;But soon their arms laid down.
Twelve hundred servile miscreants,With all their colors, guns, and tents,Were trophies of the day.The frolic o'er, the bright canteen,In centre, front, and rear was seenDriving fatigue away.
Now, brothers of the patriot bands,Let's sing deliverance from the handsOf arbitrary sway.And as our life is but a span,Let's touch the tankard while we can,In memory of that day.
At Princeton Cornwallis joined them, and on January 2, 1777, advanced against Trenton at the head of eight thousand men. By the time he reached there, Washington had withdrawn his whole force beyond a little stream called the Assunpink, where he repelled two British assaults. That night, he marched toward Princeton, routed a British detachment of two thousand, and took up a strong position on the heights at Morristown.
At Princeton Cornwallis joined them, and on January 2, 1777, advanced against Trenton at the head of eight thousand men. By the time he reached there, Washington had withdrawn his whole force beyond a little stream called the Assunpink, where he repelled two British assaults. That night, he marched toward Princeton, routed a British detachment of two thousand, and took up a strong position on the heights at Morristown.
TRENTON AND PRINCETON
[December 26, 1776—January 3, 1777]
On December, the sixthAnd the twentieth day,Our troops attacked the Hessians,And show'd them gallant play.Our roaring cannon taught themOur valor for to know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.The chiefs were kill'd or taken,The rest were put to flight,And some arrived at Princeton,Half-fainting with affright.The third of January,The morning being clear,Our troops attack'd the regulars,At Princeton, we do hear.About a mile from Princeton,The battle is begun,And many a haughty Briton fellBefore the fight was done.And what our gallant troops have doneWe'll let the British know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.The British, struck with terror,And frighted, ran away:They ran across the countryLike men in deep dismay,Crying to every one they met,"Oh! hide us! hide us! do!The rebels will devour us,So hotly they pursue."Oh, base, ungenerous Britons!To call us by that name;We're fighting for our liberty,Our just and lawful claim.We trust in Heaven's protection,Nor fear to win the day;When time shall come we'll crown our deedsWith many a loud huzza!Our foes are fled to Brunswick,Where they are close confined;Our men they are unanimous,In Freedom's cause combined.Success to General Washington,And Gates and Putnam, too,Both officers and privates,Who liberty pursue.
On December, the sixthAnd the twentieth day,Our troops attacked the Hessians,And show'd them gallant play.Our roaring cannon taught themOur valor for to know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.The chiefs were kill'd or taken,The rest were put to flight,And some arrived at Princeton,Half-fainting with affright.The third of January,The morning being clear,Our troops attack'd the regulars,At Princeton, we do hear.About a mile from Princeton,The battle is begun,And many a haughty Briton fellBefore the fight was done.And what our gallant troops have doneWe'll let the British know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.The British, struck with terror,And frighted, ran away:They ran across the countryLike men in deep dismay,Crying to every one they met,"Oh! hide us! hide us! do!The rebels will devour us,So hotly they pursue."Oh, base, ungenerous Britons!To call us by that name;We're fighting for our liberty,Our just and lawful claim.We trust in Heaven's protection,Nor fear to win the day;When time shall come we'll crown our deedsWith many a loud huzza!Our foes are fled to Brunswick,Where they are close confined;Our men they are unanimous,In Freedom's cause combined.Success to General Washington,And Gates and Putnam, too,Both officers and privates,Who liberty pursue.
On December, the sixthAnd the twentieth day,Our troops attacked the Hessians,And show'd them gallant play.
Our roaring cannon taught themOur valor for to know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.
The chiefs were kill'd or taken,The rest were put to flight,And some arrived at Princeton,Half-fainting with affright.
The third of January,The morning being clear,Our troops attack'd the regulars,At Princeton, we do hear.
About a mile from Princeton,The battle is begun,And many a haughty Briton fellBefore the fight was done.
And what our gallant troops have doneWe'll let the British know;We fought like brave AmericansAgainst a haughty foe.
The British, struck with terror,And frighted, ran away:They ran across the countryLike men in deep dismay,
Crying to every one they met,"Oh! hide us! hide us! do!The rebels will devour us,So hotly they pursue."
Oh, base, ungenerous Britons!To call us by that name;We're fighting for our liberty,Our just and lawful claim.
We trust in Heaven's protection,Nor fear to win the day;When time shall come we'll crown our deedsWith many a loud huzza!
Our foes are fled to Brunswick,Where they are close confined;Our men they are unanimous,In Freedom's cause combined.
Success to General Washington,And Gates and Putnam, too,Both officers and privates,Who liberty pursue.
ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON
[January 3, 1777]
Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,And after at Princeton the Briton we met;Few in both armies—they'd skirmishes call them,Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman—I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;There's nothing a veteran hates and abhorsMore than a chance lost to tell his adventures,Or give you his story of battles and wars.Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;Youth has the power to be up and be doing,While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day—Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run—Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying—Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.Two ways were left them by which to assail us,And neither was perfectly to their desire—One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,The other the ford that was under our fire."Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other,"Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.Down at the ford, it was said, that the waterWas reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forcesWere beaten with terrible slaughter as well.Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.How did I get there? I came from our corn-millAt noon of the day when the battle begun,Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;'Twas not very long ere that errand was done.Up to that time I had never enlisted,Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,And made up my mind with the rest to remain.Wecamped onourside—the south—of Assunpink,Whiletheybivouacked for the night upontheirs;Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,With those on both sides talking over affairs."Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis,And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;"Fox! but I have him!"—the earl had mistaken;The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.Early that night, when the leaders held council,Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;Useless to strike at the van of our foemen—His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.Washington thought so, and bade us replenishOur watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalionOur foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;Only a chance that we lost not our labor,And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger,Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way;Turning contemptuously back to attack it,They drove it with ease in disorder ahead—Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon—A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter—A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true—Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,And let us in all give the demon his due.Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not—We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one—It did not last over the fourth of an hour;But 'twas a battle that did us this service—No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen waterAnd ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor—A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over AssunpinkThat day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er.Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,I would not chatter to you about battles,And you and your children would not have been free.Thomas Dunn English.
Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,And after at Princeton the Briton we met;Few in both armies—they'd skirmishes call them,Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman—I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;There's nothing a veteran hates and abhorsMore than a chance lost to tell his adventures,Or give you his story of battles and wars.Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;Youth has the power to be up and be doing,While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day—Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run—Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying—Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.Two ways were left them by which to assail us,And neither was perfectly to their desire—One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,The other the ford that was under our fire."Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other,"Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.Down at the ford, it was said, that the waterWas reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forcesWere beaten with terrible slaughter as well.Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.How did I get there? I came from our corn-millAt noon of the day when the battle begun,Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;'Twas not very long ere that errand was done.Up to that time I had never enlisted,Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,And made up my mind with the rest to remain.Wecamped onourside—the south—of Assunpink,Whiletheybivouacked for the night upontheirs;Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,With those on both sides talking over affairs."Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis,And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;"Fox! but I have him!"—the earl had mistaken;The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.Early that night, when the leaders held council,Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;Useless to strike at the van of our foemen—His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.Washington thought so, and bade us replenishOur watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalionOur foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;Only a chance that we lost not our labor,And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger,Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way;Turning contemptuously back to attack it,They drove it with ease in disorder ahead—Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon—A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter—A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true—Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,And let us in all give the demon his due.Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not—We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one—It did not last over the fourth of an hour;But 'twas a battle that did us this service—No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen waterAnd ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor—A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over AssunpinkThat day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er.Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,I would not chatter to you about battles,And you and your children would not have been free.Thomas Dunn English.
Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,And after at Princeton the Briton we met;Few in both armies—they'd skirmishes call them,Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman—I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.
Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;There's nothing a veteran hates and abhorsMore than a chance lost to tell his adventures,Or give you his story of battles and wars.Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;Youth has the power to be up and be doing,While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.
Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day—Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run—Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying—Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.
Two ways were left them by which to assail us,And neither was perfectly to their desire—One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,The other the ford that was under our fire."Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other,"Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.
Down at the ford, it was said, that the waterWas reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forcesWere beaten with terrible slaughter as well.Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.
How did I get there? I came from our corn-millAt noon of the day when the battle begun,Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;'Twas not very long ere that errand was done.Up to that time I had never enlisted,Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,And made up my mind with the rest to remain.
Wecamped onourside—the south—of Assunpink,Whiletheybivouacked for the night upontheirs;Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,With those on both sides talking over affairs."Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis,And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;"Fox! but I have him!"—the earl had mistaken;The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.
Early that night, when the leaders held council,Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;Useless to strike at the van of our foemen—His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.Washington thought so, and bade us replenishOur watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.
Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalionOur foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;Only a chance that we lost not our labor,And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.
Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger,Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way;Turning contemptuously back to attack it,They drove it with ease in disorder ahead—Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon—A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.
Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter—A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true—Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,And let us in all give the demon his due.Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.
Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not—We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.
Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one—It did not last over the fourth of an hour;But 'twas a battle that did us this service—No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen waterAnd ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.
Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor—A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over AssunpinkThat day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er.Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,I would not chatter to you about battles,And you and your children would not have been free.
Thomas Dunn English.
"Thus in a brief campaign of three weeks, Washington had rallied the fragments of a defeated and broken army, fought two successful battles, taken nearly two thousand prisoners, and recovered the state of New Jersey."
"Thus in a brief campaign of three weeks, Washington had rallied the fragments of a defeated and broken army, fought two successful battles, taken nearly two thousand prisoners, and recovered the state of New Jersey."
SEVENTY-SIX
What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh-awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rungAnd to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman's iron hand!Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest's heart.Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain-river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold,—As if the very earth againGrew quick with God's creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.The wife, whose babe first smiled that dayThe fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.Already had the strife begun;Already blood, on Concord's plain,Along the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.William Cullen Bryant.
What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh-awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rungAnd to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman's iron hand!Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest's heart.Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain-river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold,—As if the very earth againGrew quick with God's creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.The wife, whose babe first smiled that dayThe fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.Already had the strife begun;Already blood, on Concord's plain,Along the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.William Cullen Bryant.
What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh-awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rungAnd to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman's iron hand!
Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest's heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain-river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold,—
As if the very earth againGrew quick with God's creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that dayThe fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun;Already blood, on Concord's plain,Along the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.
William Cullen Bryant.
The question of a national flag, which had been under consideration for a long time, was now finally settled. There is a tradition that in June, 1776, General Washington and a committee of Congress had called upon Mrs. John Ross, of Philadelphia, and requested her to make a flag after a design which Washington furnished, which she did, producing the first "stars and stripes."
The question of a national flag, which had been under consideration for a long time, was now finally settled. There is a tradition that in June, 1776, General Washington and a committee of Congress had called upon Mrs. John Ross, of Philadelphia, and requested her to make a flag after a design which Washington furnished, which she did, producing the first "stars and stripes."
BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG
From dusk till dawn the livelong nightShe kept the tallow dips alight,And fast her nimble fingers flewTo sew the stars upon the blue.With weary eyes and aching headShe stitched the stripes of white and red,And when the day came up the stairComplete across a carven chairHung Betsy's battle flag.Like shadows in the evening grayThe Continentals filed away,With broken boots and ragged coats,But hoarse defiance in their throats;They bore the marks of want and cold,And some were lame and some were old,And some with wounds untended bled,But floating bravely overheadWas Betsy's battle flag.When fell the battle's leaden rain,The soldier hushed his moans of painAnd raised his dying head to seeKing George's troopers turn and flee.Their charging column reeled and broke,And vanished in the rolling smoke,Before the glory of the stars,The snowy stripes, and scarlet barsOf Betsy's battle flag.The simple stone of Betsy RossIs covered now with mold and moss,But still her deathless banner flies,And keeps the color of the skies.A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,A nation follows where it leads,And every man is proud to yieldHis life upon a crimson fieldFor Betsy's battle flag!Minna Irving.
From dusk till dawn the livelong nightShe kept the tallow dips alight,And fast her nimble fingers flewTo sew the stars upon the blue.With weary eyes and aching headShe stitched the stripes of white and red,And when the day came up the stairComplete across a carven chairHung Betsy's battle flag.Like shadows in the evening grayThe Continentals filed away,With broken boots and ragged coats,But hoarse defiance in their throats;They bore the marks of want and cold,And some were lame and some were old,And some with wounds untended bled,But floating bravely overheadWas Betsy's battle flag.When fell the battle's leaden rain,The soldier hushed his moans of painAnd raised his dying head to seeKing George's troopers turn and flee.Their charging column reeled and broke,And vanished in the rolling smoke,Before the glory of the stars,The snowy stripes, and scarlet barsOf Betsy's battle flag.The simple stone of Betsy RossIs covered now with mold and moss,But still her deathless banner flies,And keeps the color of the skies.A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,A nation follows where it leads,And every man is proud to yieldHis life upon a crimson fieldFor Betsy's battle flag!Minna Irving.
From dusk till dawn the livelong nightShe kept the tallow dips alight,And fast her nimble fingers flewTo sew the stars upon the blue.With weary eyes and aching headShe stitched the stripes of white and red,And when the day came up the stairComplete across a carven chairHung Betsy's battle flag.
Like shadows in the evening grayThe Continentals filed away,With broken boots and ragged coats,But hoarse defiance in their throats;They bore the marks of want and cold,And some were lame and some were old,And some with wounds untended bled,But floating bravely overheadWas Betsy's battle flag.
When fell the battle's leaden rain,The soldier hushed his moans of painAnd raised his dying head to seeKing George's troopers turn and flee.Their charging column reeled and broke,And vanished in the rolling smoke,Before the glory of the stars,The snowy stripes, and scarlet barsOf Betsy's battle flag.
The simple stone of Betsy RossIs covered now with mold and moss,But still her deathless banner flies,And keeps the color of the skies.A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,A nation follows where it leads,And every man is proud to yieldHis life upon a crimson fieldFor Betsy's battle flag!
Minna Irving.
It was not, however, until Saturday, June 14, 1777, that a flag was formally adopted by Congress. On that day, Congress "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation." Save for the addition of a star for each new state admitted to the Union, this is the flag of the United States to-day.
It was not, however, until Saturday, June 14, 1777, that a flag was formally adopted by Congress. On that day, Congress "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation." Save for the addition of a star for each new state admitted to the Union, this is the flag of the United States to-day.
THE AMERICAN FLAG
IWhen Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there;She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.IIMajestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,And see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!IIIFlag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on;Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glanceAnd when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroudAnd gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,And cowering foes shall sink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.IVFlag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.VFlag of the free heart's hope and home,By angel hands to valor given;The stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?Joseph Rodman Drake.
IWhen Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there;She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.IIMajestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,And see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!IIIFlag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on;Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glanceAnd when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroudAnd gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,And cowering foes shall sink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.IVFlag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.VFlag of the free heart's hope and home,By angel hands to valor given;The stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?Joseph Rodman Drake.
IWhen Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there;She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sunShe called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.
IIMajestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,And see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!
IIIFlag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on;Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glanceAnd when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroudAnd gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,And cowering foes shall sink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.
IVFlag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.
VFlag of the free heart's hope and home,By angel hands to valor given;The stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
Joseph Rodman Drake.
"THE FATE OF SIR JACK BRAG"
Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13, detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington, where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared to give it a warm reception.
Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13, detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington, where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared to give it a warm reception.
THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON
Why come ye hither, stranger?Your mind what madness fills?In our valleys there is danger,And danger on our hills!Hear ye not the singingOf the bugle, wild and free?Full soon ye'll know the ringingOf the rifle from the tree!The rifle, the sharp rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!Ye ride a goodly steed;He may know another master:Ye forward come with speed,But ye'll learn to back much faster,When ye meet our mountain boysAnd their leader, Johnny Stark!Lads who make but little noise,But who always hit the markWith the rifle, the true rifle!In their hands will prove no trifle!Had ye no graves at homeAcross the briny water,That hither ye must come,Like bullocks to the slaughter?If we the work must do,Why, the sooner 'tis begun,If flint and trigger hold but true,The quicker 'twill be doneBy the rifle, the good rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!
Why come ye hither, stranger?Your mind what madness fills?In our valleys there is danger,And danger on our hills!Hear ye not the singingOf the bugle, wild and free?Full soon ye'll know the ringingOf the rifle from the tree!The rifle, the sharp rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!Ye ride a goodly steed;He may know another master:Ye forward come with speed,But ye'll learn to back much faster,When ye meet our mountain boysAnd their leader, Johnny Stark!Lads who make but little noise,But who always hit the markWith the rifle, the true rifle!In their hands will prove no trifle!Had ye no graves at homeAcross the briny water,That hither ye must come,Like bullocks to the slaughter?If we the work must do,Why, the sooner 'tis begun,If flint and trigger hold but true,The quicker 'twill be doneBy the rifle, the good rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!
Why come ye hither, stranger?Your mind what madness fills?In our valleys there is danger,And danger on our hills!Hear ye not the singingOf the bugle, wild and free?Full soon ye'll know the ringingOf the rifle from the tree!The rifle, the sharp rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!
Ye ride a goodly steed;He may know another master:Ye forward come with speed,But ye'll learn to back much faster,When ye meet our mountain boysAnd their leader, Johnny Stark!Lads who make but little noise,But who always hit the markWith the rifle, the true rifle!In their hands will prove no trifle!
Had ye no graves at homeAcross the briny water,That hither ye must come,Like bullocks to the slaughter?If we the work must do,Why, the sooner 'tis begun,If flint and trigger hold but true,The quicker 'twill be doneBy the rifle, the good rifle!In our hands it is no trifle!
Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner, and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set out to meet the enemy.
Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner, and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set out to meet the enemy.
THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN
[August 15, 1777]