CHAPTER X

"Has the Marquis La FayetteTaken off all our hay yet?"Says Clinton to the wise heads around him:"Yes, faith, Sir Harry,Each stack he did carry,And likewise the cattle—confound him!"Besides, he now goes,Just under your nose,To burn all the houses to cinder.""If that be his project,It is not an objectWorth a great man's attempting to hinder."For forage and houseI care not a louse;For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow:I swear I'll not do moreTo keep them in humor,Than play on my violoncello."Since Charleston is taken,'Twill sure save my bacon,—I can live a whole year on that same, sir;Ride about all the day,At night, concert or play;So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir."If growlers complain,I inactive remain—Will do nothing, nor let any others!'Tis sure no new thingTo serve thus our king—Witness Burgoyne, and two famous Brothers!"Joseph Stansbury.

"Has the Marquis La FayetteTaken off all our hay yet?"Says Clinton to the wise heads around him:"Yes, faith, Sir Harry,Each stack he did carry,And likewise the cattle—confound him!

"Besides, he now goes,Just under your nose,To burn all the houses to cinder.""If that be his project,It is not an objectWorth a great man's attempting to hinder.

"For forage and houseI care not a louse;For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow:I swear I'll not do moreTo keep them in humor,Than play on my violoncello.

"Since Charleston is taken,'Twill sure save my bacon,—I can live a whole year on that same, sir;Ride about all the day,At night, concert or play;So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir.

"If growlers complain,I inactive remain—Will do nothing, nor let any others!'Tis sure no new thingTo serve thus our king—Witness Burgoyne, and two famous Brothers!"

Joseph Stansbury.

Another of Stansbury's lyrics, and perhaps the best he ever wrote, is "The Lords of the Main," intended for the use of the British sailors then engaged in fighting their ancient foes, France and Spain.

THE LORDS OF THE MAIN

[1780]

When Faction, in league with the treacherous Gaul,Began to look big, and paraded in state,A meeting was held at Credulity Hall,And Echo proclaimed their ally good and great.By sea and by landSuch wonders are planned—No less than the bold British lion to chain!"Well hove!" says Jack Lanyard,"French,Congo, and Spaniard,Have at you!—remember, we're Lords of the Main.Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main;The Tars of old England are Lords of the Main!"Though party-contention awhile may perplex,And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense,If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex,In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence.When danger alarms,'Tis then that in armsUnited we rush on the foe with disdain;And when the storm rages,It only presagesFresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main!Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main—Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main!Then, Britons, strike home—make sure of your blow:The chase is in view—never mind a lea shore.With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe:'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore!Brave Anson, and Drake,Hawke, Russell, and Blake,With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain!Combining with treason,They're deaf to all reason;Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main.Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main—The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main!Joseph Stansbury.

Though party-contention awhile may perplex,And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense,If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex,In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence.When danger alarms,'Tis then that in armsUnited we rush on the foe with disdain;And when the storm rages,It only presagesFresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main!Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main—Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main!

Then, Britons, strike home—make sure of your blow:The chase is in view—never mind a lea shore.With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe:'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore!Brave Anson, and Drake,Hawke, Russell, and Blake,With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain!Combining with treason,They're deaf to all reason;Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main.Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main—The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main!

Joseph Stansbury.

Among the desperate and foolish expedients to which the British resorted in the hope of winning America back to her allegiance was that of sending Prince William Henry, afterwards William IV, to New York in 1781. The Tory authorities of the city overwhelmed him with adulation, but in the country at large, his visit excited only derision.

THE ROYAL ADVENTURER

[1781]

Prince William, of the Brunswick race,To witness George's sad disgraceThe royal lad came over,Rebels to kill, by right divine—Derived from that illustrious line,The beggars of Hanover.So many chiefs got broken patesIn vanquishing the rebel states,So many nobles fell,That George the Third in passion cried:"Our royal blood must now be tried;'Tis that must break the spell;"To you [the fat pot-valiant swainTo Digby said], dear friend of mine,To you I trust my boy;The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,Rebellion die when he appears,My Tories leap with joy."So said, so done—the lad was sent,But never reached the continent,An island held him fast—Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,"Prince William's come at last!""Prince William's come!"—the Briton cried—"Our labors now will be repaid—Dominion be restored—Our monarch is in William seen,He is the image of our queen,Let William be adored!"The Tories came with long address,With poems groaned the royal press,And all in William's praise—The youth, astonished, looked aboutTo find their vast dominions out,Then answered in amaze:"Where all your vast domain can be,Friends, for my soul I cannot see;'Tis but an empty name;Three wasted islands and a townIn rubbish buried—half burnt down,Is all that we can claim;"I am of royal birth, 'tis true.But what, my sons, can princes do,No armies to command?Cornwallis conquered and distrest—Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest—I curse—and quit the land."Philip Freneau.

Prince William, of the Brunswick race,To witness George's sad disgraceThe royal lad came over,Rebels to kill, by right divine—Derived from that illustrious line,The beggars of Hanover.

So many chiefs got broken patesIn vanquishing the rebel states,So many nobles fell,That George the Third in passion cried:"Our royal blood must now be tried;'Tis that must break the spell;

"To you [the fat pot-valiant swainTo Digby said], dear friend of mine,To you I trust my boy;The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,Rebellion die when he appears,My Tories leap with joy."

So said, so done—the lad was sent,But never reached the continent,An island held him fast—Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,"Prince William's come at last!"

"Prince William's come!"—the Briton cried—"Our labors now will be repaid—Dominion be restored—Our monarch is in William seen,He is the image of our queen,Let William be adored!"

The Tories came with long address,With poems groaned the royal press,And all in William's praise—The youth, astonished, looked aboutTo find their vast dominions out,Then answered in amaze:

"Where all your vast domain can be,Friends, for my soul I cannot see;'Tis but an empty name;Three wasted islands and a townIn rubbish buried—half burnt down,Is all that we can claim;

"I am of royal birth, 'tis true.But what, my sons, can princes do,No armies to command?Cornwallis conquered and distrest—Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest—I curse—and quit the land."

Philip Freneau.

The war in the North thereafter was confined, on the part of the British, to predatory raids along the coasts, of which "The Descent on Middlesex" is a fair example. On the afternoon of July 22, 1781, a party of Royalist refugees surrounded the church, where the people of Middlesex were at prayer, and took fifty of them captive, among them Schoolmaster St. John, of Norwalk, the author of the following ingenuous ballad describing their experiences.

THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX

[July 22, 1781]

July the twenty-second day,The precise hour I will not say,In seventeen hundred and eighty-one,A horrid action was begun.While to the Lord they sing and pray,The Tories who in ambush lay,Beset the house with brazen face,At Middlesex, it was the place.A guard was plac'd the house before,Likewise behind and at each door;Then void of shame, those men of sinThe sacred temple enter'd in.The reverend Matherclosed his book,How did the congregation look!Those demons plunder'd all they could,Either in silver or in gold.The silver buckles which we use,Both at the knees and on the shoes,These caitiffs took them in their rage,Had no respect for sex or age.As they were searching all around,They several silver watches found;While they who're plac'd as guards without,Like raging devils rang'd about.Run forty horses to the shore,Not many either less or more;With bridles, saddles, pillions on;In a few minutes all was done.The men from hence they took away,Upon that awful sacred day,Was forty-eight, besides two moreThey chanc'd to find upon the shore.On board the shipping they were sent,Their money gone, and spirits spent,And greatly fearing their sad end,This wicked seizure did portend.They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd,And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first;'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrongTo bring so many men along.Then every man must tell his name,A list they took, and kept the same;When twenty-four of fifty menWere order'd to go home again.The twenty-six who stay'd behind,Most cruelly they were confin'd;On board the brig were order'd quick,And then confin'd beneath the deck.A dismal hole with filth besmear'd,But 'twas no more than what we fear'd;Sad the confinement, dark the night,But then the devil thought 'twas right.But to return whence I left off.They at our misery made a scoff;Like raving madmen tore about,Swearing they'd take our vitals out.They said no quarter they would giveNor let a cursèd rebel live;But would their joints in pieces cut,Then round the deck like turkeys strut.July, the fourth and twentieth day,We all marched off to Oyster Bay;To increase our pains and make it worse,They iron'd just six pair of us.But as they wanted just one pair,An iron stirrup lying thereWas taken and on anvil laid,On which they with a hammer paid.And as they beat it inch by inch,They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch;Those wretched caitiffs standing by,Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.Although to call them not by name,From Fairfield county many came;And were delighted with the rout,To see the rebels kick'd about.At night we travell'd in the rain,All begg'd for shelter, but in vain,Though almost naked to the skin;A dismal pickle we were in.Then to the half-way house we came,The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name,And there we found a soul's relief;We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.The people gen'rously behav'd,Made a good fire, some brandy gave,Of which we greatly stood in need,As we were wet and cold indeed.But ere the house we did attain,We trembled so with cold and rain,Our irons jingled—well they might—We shiver'd so that stormy night.In half an hour or thereabout,The orders were, "Come, all turn out!Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew,To loiter thus will never do."'Twas now about the break of day,When all were forc'd to march away;With what they order'd we complied,Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.We made a halt one half mile shortOf what is term'd Brucklyn's fort;Where all were hurried through the street:Some overtook us, some we met.We now traversing the parade,The awful figure which we made,Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment,And some would curse us as we went.Their grandest fort was now hard by us;They show'd us that to terrify us;They show'd us all their bulwarks there,To let be known how strong they were.Just then the Tory drums did sound,And pipes rang out a warlike round;Supposing we must thence concludeThat Britain ne'er could be subdued.Up to the guard-house we were led,Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread;Not quite one mouthful, I believe,For every man we did receive.In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd,And at New York arriv'd at last;As through the streets we pass'd along,Ten thousand curses round us rang.But some would laugh, and some would sneer,And some would grin, and others leer;A mixèd mob, a medley crew,I guess as e'er the devil knew.To the Provost we then were haul'd,Though we of war were prisoners call'd;Our irons now were order'd off,And we were left to sneeze and cough.But oh! what company we found.With great surprise we look'd around:I must conclude that in that place,We found the worst of Adam's race.Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too,And everything that's bad they'd do;One of our men found to his cost,Three pounds, York money, he had lost.They pick'd his pocket quite beforeWe had been there one single hour;And while he lookèd o'er and o'er,The vagrants from him stole some more.We soon found out, but thought it strangeWe never were to be exchang'dBy a cartel, but for some menWhom they desir'd to have again.A pack with whom they well agree,Who're call'd the loyal company,Or "Loyalists Associated,"As by themselves incorporated.Our food was call'd two-thirds in weightOf what a soldier has to eat;We had no blankets in our need,Till a kind friend did intercede.Said he, "The prisoners suffer so,'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too;I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed,So great their hardship and their need."And well to us was the event,Fine blankets soon to us were sent;Small the allowance, very small,But better far than none at all.An oaken plank, it was our bed,An oaken pillow for the head,And room as scanty as our meals,For we lay crowded head and heels.In seven days or thereabout,One Jonas Weed was taken out,And to his friends he was resign'd,But many still were kept behind.Soon after this some were parol'd,Too tedious wholly to be told;And some from bondage were unstrung,Whose awful sufferings can't be sung.The dread smallpox to some they gave,Nor tried at all their lives to save,But rather sought their desolation,As they denied 'em 'noculation.To the smallpox there did succeedA putrid fever, bad indeed;As they before were weak and spent,Soon from the stage of life they went.For wood we greatly stood in need,For which we earnestly did plead;But one tenth part of what we wantedOf wood, to us was never granted.The boiling kettles which we had,Were wanting covers, good or bad;The worst of rum that could be bought,For a great price, to us was brought.For bread and milk, and sugar, too,We had to pay four times their due;While cash and clothing which were sent,Those wretched creatures did prevent.Some time it was in dark November,But just the day I can't remember,Full forty of us were confin'dIn a small room both damp and blind,Because there had been two or three,Who were not of our company,Who did attempt the other day,The Tories said, to get away.In eighteen days we were exchang'd,And through the town allowed to range;Of twenty-five that were ta'en,But just nineteen reach'd home again.Four days before December's gone,In seventeen hundred eighty-one,I hail'd the place where months before,The Tories took me from the shore.Peter St. John.

July the twenty-second day,The precise hour I will not say,In seventeen hundred and eighty-one,A horrid action was begun.

While to the Lord they sing and pray,The Tories who in ambush lay,Beset the house with brazen face,At Middlesex, it was the place.

A guard was plac'd the house before,Likewise behind and at each door;Then void of shame, those men of sinThe sacred temple enter'd in.

The reverend Matherclosed his book,How did the congregation look!Those demons plunder'd all they could,Either in silver or in gold.

The silver buckles which we use,Both at the knees and on the shoes,These caitiffs took them in their rage,Had no respect for sex or age.

As they were searching all around,They several silver watches found;While they who're plac'd as guards without,Like raging devils rang'd about.

Run forty horses to the shore,Not many either less or more;With bridles, saddles, pillions on;In a few minutes all was done.

The men from hence they took away,Upon that awful sacred day,Was forty-eight, besides two moreThey chanc'd to find upon the shore.

On board the shipping they were sent,Their money gone, and spirits spent,And greatly fearing their sad end,This wicked seizure did portend.

They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd,And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first;'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrongTo bring so many men along.

Then every man must tell his name,A list they took, and kept the same;When twenty-four of fifty menWere order'd to go home again.

The twenty-six who stay'd behind,Most cruelly they were confin'd;On board the brig were order'd quick,And then confin'd beneath the deck.

A dismal hole with filth besmear'd,But 'twas no more than what we fear'd;Sad the confinement, dark the night,But then the devil thought 'twas right.

But to return whence I left off.They at our misery made a scoff;Like raving madmen tore about,Swearing they'd take our vitals out.

They said no quarter they would giveNor let a cursèd rebel live;But would their joints in pieces cut,Then round the deck like turkeys strut.

July, the fourth and twentieth day,We all marched off to Oyster Bay;To increase our pains and make it worse,They iron'd just six pair of us.

But as they wanted just one pair,An iron stirrup lying thereWas taken and on anvil laid,On which they with a hammer paid.

And as they beat it inch by inch,They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch;Those wretched caitiffs standing by,Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.

Although to call them not by name,From Fairfield county many came;And were delighted with the rout,To see the rebels kick'd about.

At night we travell'd in the rain,All begg'd for shelter, but in vain,Though almost naked to the skin;A dismal pickle we were in.

Then to the half-way house we came,The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name,And there we found a soul's relief;We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.

The people gen'rously behav'd,Made a good fire, some brandy gave,Of which we greatly stood in need,As we were wet and cold indeed.

But ere the house we did attain,We trembled so with cold and rain,Our irons jingled—well they might—We shiver'd so that stormy night.

In half an hour or thereabout,The orders were, "Come, all turn out!Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew,To loiter thus will never do."

'Twas now about the break of day,When all were forc'd to march away;With what they order'd we complied,Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.

We made a halt one half mile shortOf what is term'd Brucklyn's fort;Where all were hurried through the street:Some overtook us, some we met.

We now traversing the parade,The awful figure which we made,Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment,And some would curse us as we went.

Their grandest fort was now hard by us;They show'd us that to terrify us;They show'd us all their bulwarks there,To let be known how strong they were.

Just then the Tory drums did sound,And pipes rang out a warlike round;Supposing we must thence concludeThat Britain ne'er could be subdued.

Up to the guard-house we were led,Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread;Not quite one mouthful, I believe,For every man we did receive.

In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd,And at New York arriv'd at last;As through the streets we pass'd along,Ten thousand curses round us rang.

But some would laugh, and some would sneer,And some would grin, and others leer;A mixèd mob, a medley crew,I guess as e'er the devil knew.

To the Provost we then were haul'd,Though we of war were prisoners call'd;Our irons now were order'd off,And we were left to sneeze and cough.

But oh! what company we found.With great surprise we look'd around:I must conclude that in that place,We found the worst of Adam's race.

Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too,And everything that's bad they'd do;One of our men found to his cost,Three pounds, York money, he had lost.

They pick'd his pocket quite beforeWe had been there one single hour;And while he lookèd o'er and o'er,The vagrants from him stole some more.

We soon found out, but thought it strangeWe never were to be exchang'dBy a cartel, but for some menWhom they desir'd to have again.

A pack with whom they well agree,Who're call'd the loyal company,Or "Loyalists Associated,"As by themselves incorporated.

Our food was call'd two-thirds in weightOf what a soldier has to eat;We had no blankets in our need,Till a kind friend did intercede.

Said he, "The prisoners suffer so,'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too;I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed,So great their hardship and their need."

And well to us was the event,Fine blankets soon to us were sent;Small the allowance, very small,But better far than none at all.

An oaken plank, it was our bed,An oaken pillow for the head,And room as scanty as our meals,For we lay crowded head and heels.

In seven days or thereabout,One Jonas Weed was taken out,And to his friends he was resign'd,But many still were kept behind.

Soon after this some were parol'd,Too tedious wholly to be told;And some from bondage were unstrung,Whose awful sufferings can't be sung.

The dread smallpox to some they gave,Nor tried at all their lives to save,But rather sought their desolation,As they denied 'em 'noculation.

To the smallpox there did succeedA putrid fever, bad indeed;As they before were weak and spent,Soon from the stage of life they went.

For wood we greatly stood in need,For which we earnestly did plead;But one tenth part of what we wantedOf wood, to us was never granted.

The boiling kettles which we had,Were wanting covers, good or bad;The worst of rum that could be bought,For a great price, to us was brought.

For bread and milk, and sugar, too,We had to pay four times their due;While cash and clothing which were sent,Those wretched creatures did prevent.

Some time it was in dark November,But just the day I can't remember,Full forty of us were confin'dIn a small room both damp and blind,

Because there had been two or three,Who were not of our company,Who did attempt the other day,The Tories said, to get away.

In eighteen days we were exchang'd,And through the town allowed to range;Of twenty-five that were ta'en,But just nineteen reach'd home again.

Four days before December's gone,In seventeen hundred eighty-one,I hail'd the place where months before,The Tories took me from the shore.

Peter St. John.

THE WAR IN THE SOUTH

After the surrender of Burgoyne, the military attitude of the British in the Northern States was, as has been seen, purely defensive, but the Southern States were the scene of vigorous fighting. The King had set his heart on the reduction of Georgia and the Carolinas, and it looked for a time as though he would be gratified. In General Augustine Prevost there was at last found a man after the King's own heart, and his barbarities and vandalism were among the most monstrous of the war. General Benjamin Lincoln was sent south to oppose him, and was soon joined by Count Pulaski and his legion.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER

When the dying flame of dayThrough the chancel shot its ray,Far the glimmering tapers shedFaint light on the cowlèd head;And the censer burning swung,Where, before the altar, hungThe crimson banner, that with prayerHad been consecrated there.And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle."Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o'er the good and brave;When the battle's distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale,When the clarion's music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflict shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks."Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud's encircling wreath,Guard it, till our homes are free!Guard it! God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then."Take thy banner! But when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him! By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him! he our love hath shared!Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!"Take thy banner! and if e'erThou shouldst press the soldier's bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee."The warrior took that banner proud,And it was his martial cloak and shroud!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

"Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o'er the good and brave;When the battle's distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale,When the clarion's music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflict shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud's encircling wreath,Guard it, till our homes are free!Guard it! God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him! By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him! he our love hath shared!Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'erThou shouldst press the soldier's bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud,And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In August, 1779, the French fleet under D'Estaing appeared off the coast of Georgia, and plans were made for the capture of Savannah. The place was closely invested by the French and Americans, and for nearly a month the siege was vigorously carried on. But D'Estaing grew impatient, and on October 9 an attempt was made to carry the place by storm. The assailants were totally defeated, losing more than a thousand men, while the British loss was only fifty-five. Count Pulaski was among the slain.

ABOUT SAVANNAH

[October 9, 1779]

Come let us rejoice,With heart and with voice,Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,While bumpers go round,Reëcho the sound,Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.With warlike parade,And his Irish brigade,His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,As proud as an elf,D'Estaing came himself,And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.There joining a bandUnder Lincoln's command,Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,'Gainst the town of SavannahHe planted his banner,And then he felt wondrous big, sir.With thund'ring of guns,And bursting of bombs,He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:But amidst all their din,Brave Maitland push'd in,AndMoncrieffecried, "A fig for your noise," sir.Chagrined at delay,As he meant not to stay,The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.Van, centre, and rearMarch'd up without fear,Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.Though rude was the shock,Unmov'd as a rock,Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,While the brave German corps,And Americans boreTheir parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.Then muskets did rattle,Fierce ragèd the battle,Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.The ditch fill'd with slain,Blood dyed all the plain,When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.See! see! how they run!Lord! what glorious fun!How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!Brains fly all around,Dying screeches resound,And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.There Pulaski fell,That imp of old Bell,Who attempted to murder his king, sir.But now he is goneWhence he'll never return;But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.To Charleston with fearThe rebels repair;D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,Each blaming the other,Each cursing his brother,And—may they cut each other's throats, sir.Scarce three thousand menThe town did maintain,'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,Who left on the plain,Of wounded and slain,Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.Three thousand! no less!For the rebels confessSome loss, as you very well know, sir.Then let bumpers go round,And reëcho the sound,Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

Come let us rejoice,With heart and with voice,Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,While bumpers go round,Reëcho the sound,Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

With warlike parade,And his Irish brigade,His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,As proud as an elf,D'Estaing came himself,And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

There joining a bandUnder Lincoln's command,Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,'Gainst the town of SavannahHe planted his banner,And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

With thund'ring of guns,And bursting of bombs,He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:But amidst all their din,Brave Maitland push'd in,AndMoncrieffecried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

Chagrined at delay,As he meant not to stay,The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.Van, centre, and rearMarch'd up without fear,Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

Though rude was the shock,Unmov'd as a rock,Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,While the brave German corps,And Americans boreTheir parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

Then muskets did rattle,Fierce ragèd the battle,Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.The ditch fill'd with slain,Blood dyed all the plain,When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.

See! see! how they run!Lord! what glorious fun!How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!Brains fly all around,Dying screeches resound,And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

There Pulaski fell,That imp of old Bell,Who attempted to murder his king, sir.But now he is goneWhence he'll never return;But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

To Charleston with fearThe rebels repair;D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,Each blaming the other,Each cursing his brother,And—may they cut each other's throats, sir.

Scarce three thousand menThe town did maintain,'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,Who left on the plain,Of wounded and slain,Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

Three thousand! no less!For the rebels confessSome loss, as you very well know, sir.Then let bumpers go round,And reëcho the sound,Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

As soon as Clinton learned of this victory, he determined to capture Charleston, where General Lincoln was stationed with three thousand men. Lincoln decided to withstand a siege, hoping for reinforcements; but none came, and on May 12, 1780, to avoid a wanton waste of life, he surrendered his army and the city to the British.

A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON

[May 12, 1780]

King Hancock sat in regal state,And big with pride and vainly great,Address'd his rebel crew:"These haughty Britons soon shall yieldThe boasted honors of the field,While our brave sons pursue."Six thousand fighting men or more,Protect the Carolina shore,And Freedom will defend;And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,How vainly they contend."But ere he spake, in dread array,To rebel foes, ill-fated day,The British boys appear;Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.See Clinton brave, serene, and great,For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,Direct the thund'ring fight,While Mars, propitious god of war,Looks down from his triumphal carWith wonder and delight."Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,'Midst heroes thou wert born to shineA great immortal name,And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appearConspicuous each revolving year,The pledge of future fame."Our tars, their share of glories won,For they among the bravest shone,Undaunted, firm, and bold;Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'dHearts which with native valor glow'd,Hearts of true British mould.

King Hancock sat in regal state,And big with pride and vainly great,Address'd his rebel crew:"These haughty Britons soon shall yieldThe boasted honors of the field,While our brave sons pursue.

"Six thousand fighting men or more,Protect the Carolina shore,And Freedom will defend;And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,How vainly they contend."

But ere he spake, in dread array,To rebel foes, ill-fated day,The British boys appear;Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.

See Clinton brave, serene, and great,For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,Direct the thund'ring fight,While Mars, propitious god of war,Looks down from his triumphal carWith wonder and delight.

"Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,'Midst heroes thou wert born to shineA great immortal name,And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appearConspicuous each revolving year,The pledge of future fame."

Our tars, their share of glories won,For they among the bravest shone,Undaunted, firm, and bold;Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'dHearts which with native valor glow'd,Hearts of true British mould.

The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British; estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion, perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy in legitimate warfare.

THE SWAMP FOX

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,His friends and merry men are we;And when the troop of Tarleton rides,We burrow in the cypress-tree.The turfy hammock is our bed,Our home is in the red deer's den,Our roof, the tree-top overhead,For we are wild and hunted men.We fly by day and shun its light,But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,We mount and start with early night,And through the forest track our foe.And soon he hears our chargers leap,The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,And ere he drives away his sleep,And rushes from his camp, he dies.Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,That will not ask a kind caressTo swim the Santee at our need,When on his heels the foemen press,—The true heart and the ready hand,The spirit stubborn to be free,The twisted bore, the smiting brand,—And we are Marion's men, you see.Now light the fire and cook the meal,The last perhaps that we shall taste;I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,And that's a sign we move in haste.He whistles to the scouts, and hark!You hear his order calm and low.Come, wave your torch across the dark,And let us see the boys that go.We may not see their forms again,God help 'em, should they find the strife!For they are strong and fearless men,And make no coward terms for life;They'll fight as long as Marion bids,And when he speaks the word to shy,Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.Now stir the fire and lie at ease,—The scouts are gone, and on the brushI see the Colonel bend his knee,To take his slumbers too. But hush!He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;The man that's fighting day by dayMay well, when night comes, take a change,And down upon his knees to pray.Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and handThe sly and silent jug that's there;I love not it should idly standWhen Marion's men have need of cheer.'Tis seldom that our luck affordsA stuff like this we just have quaffed,And dry potatoes on our boardsMay always call for such a draught.Now pile the brush and roll the log;Hard pillow, but a soldier's headThat's half the time in brake and bogMust never think of softer bed.The owl is hooting to the night,The cooter crawling o'er the bank,And in that pond the flashing lightTells where the alligator sank.What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,And through the Santee swamp so deep,Without the aid of friendly moon,And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!But courage, comrades! Marion leads,The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;So clear your swords and spur your steeds,There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,We leave the swamp and cypress-tree,Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,And ready for the strife are we.The Tory camp is now in sight,And there he cowers within his den;He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,He fears, and flies from Marion's men.William Gilmore Simms.

We fly by day and shun its light,But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,We mount and start with early night,And through the forest track our foe.And soon he hears our chargers leap,The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,And ere he drives away his sleep,And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,That will not ask a kind caressTo swim the Santee at our need,When on his heels the foemen press,—The true heart and the ready hand,The spirit stubborn to be free,The twisted bore, the smiting brand,—And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal,The last perhaps that we shall taste;I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,And that's a sign we move in haste.He whistles to the scouts, and hark!You hear his order calm and low.Come, wave your torch across the dark,And let us see the boys that go.

We may not see their forms again,God help 'em, should they find the strife!For they are strong and fearless men,And make no coward terms for life;They'll fight as long as Marion bids,And when he speaks the word to shy,Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,—The scouts are gone, and on the brushI see the Colonel bend his knee,To take his slumbers too. But hush!He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;The man that's fighting day by dayMay well, when night comes, take a change,And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and handThe sly and silent jug that's there;I love not it should idly standWhen Marion's men have need of cheer.'Tis seldom that our luck affordsA stuff like this we just have quaffed,And dry potatoes on our boardsMay always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log;Hard pillow, but a soldier's headThat's half the time in brake and bogMust never think of softer bed.The owl is hooting to the night,The cooter crawling o'er the bank,And in that pond the flashing lightTells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,And through the Santee swamp so deep,Without the aid of friendly moon,And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!But courage, comrades! Marion leads,The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;So clear your swords and spur your steeds,There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,We leave the swamp and cypress-tree,Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,And ready for the strife are we.The Tory camp is now in sight,And there he cowers within his den;He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

William Gilmore Simms.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress-tree;We know the forest round usAs seamen know the sea.We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear:When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,We share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night-windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and away,Back to the pathless forestBefore the peep of day.Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.William Cullen Bryant.

Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear:When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,We share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night-windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and away,Back to the pathless forestBefore the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

Among the members of Marion's band was a gigantic Scotsman named Macdonald, the hero of many daring escapades, of which his raid through Georgetown, S. C., with only four troopers, was the most remarkable. Georgetown was a fortified place, defended by a garrison of three hundred men.

MACDONALD'S RAID

[1780]

I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,And the legion lay idle and listless that day,A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade,Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid.Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring,Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;Yet he chose from our numbersfourmen and no more."Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore,If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall formSeated firm in the saddle, his face like a stormWhen the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing—Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride,Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide,The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,A softdolcewere wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout,That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din!'Tis the front wall besieged—have the rebels rushed in?It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ringOf 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;And the ground here and there by an ominous stainShowed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ringWith "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy leftWhose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft,What should we do next, but—as careless and calmAs if we were scenting a summer morn's balm'Mid a land of pure peace—just serenely drop downOn the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.Whata welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?—Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scarsSeemed as distant just then as the fierce front of MarsFrom a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fastOf the Britons made 'ware of our rashruseat last;So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we flingThe old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten trackWe had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the treesSeemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ringThe shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"Ah!thatwas a feat, lads, to boast of! What menLike you weaklings to-day had durst cope withusthen?Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vowI'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now—The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring—Ay!mymuscles are firm still;Ifought 'gainst the King!Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of allThe sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall;Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and graspThe rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweepI have smitten full many a foeman with sleep—That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories clingTo those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.Paul Hamilton Hayne.

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;Yet he chose from our numbersfourmen and no more."Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore,If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall formSeated firm in the saddle, his face like a stormWhen the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing—Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride,Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide,The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,A softdolcewere wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout,That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din!'Tis the front wall besieged—have the rebels rushed in?It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ringOf 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;And the ground here and there by an ominous stainShowed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ringWith "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy leftWhose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft,What should we do next, but—as careless and calmAs if we were scenting a summer morn's balm'Mid a land of pure peace—just serenely drop downOn the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.Whata welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?—

Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scarsSeemed as distant just then as the fierce front of MarsFrom a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fastOf the Britons made 'ware of our rashruseat last;So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we flingThe old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten trackWe had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the treesSeemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ringThe shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Ah!thatwas a feat, lads, to boast of! What menLike you weaklings to-day had durst cope withusthen?Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vowI'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now—The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring—Ay!mymuscles are firm still;Ifought 'gainst the King!

Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of allThe sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall;Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and graspThe rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweepI have smitten full many a foeman with sleep—That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories clingTo those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

Second alone to Marion in this wild warfare was Thomas Sumter, a Virginian, destined to serve his country in other ways. During the summer of 1780, he kept up so brisk a guerrilla warfare that Cornwallis called him "the greatest plague in the country."

SUMTER'S BAND

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