Come listen, good neighbors of every degree,Whose hearts, like your purses, are open and free,Let this pole a monument ever remain,Of the folly and arts of the time-serving train.Derry down, down, hey derry down.Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground,Resembles their scheming, so low and profound;The dark underminings, and base dirty ends,On which the success of the faction depends.Derry down, etc.The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put us in mind,As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with the wind,That no faith can be plac'd in the words of our foes,Who change as the wind of their interest blows.Derry down, etc.The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and so neat,Resembles too closely their fraud and deceit,If the outside's but guarded, they care not a pinHow rotten and hollow the heart is within.Derry down, etc.Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, away,Who strive to cajole us in hopes to betray;Leave the pole for the stroke of the lightning to sever,And, huzzah for King George and our country forever!Derry down, etc.
Come listen, good neighbors of every degree,Whose hearts, like your purses, are open and free,Let this pole a monument ever remain,Of the folly and arts of the time-serving train.Derry down, down, hey derry down.Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground,Resembles their scheming, so low and profound;The dark underminings, and base dirty ends,On which the success of the faction depends.Derry down, etc.The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put us in mind,As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with the wind,That no faith can be plac'd in the words of our foes,Who change as the wind of their interest blows.Derry down, etc.The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and so neat,Resembles too closely their fraud and deceit,If the outside's but guarded, they care not a pinHow rotten and hollow the heart is within.Derry down, etc.Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, away,Who strive to cajole us in hopes to betray;Leave the pole for the stroke of the lightning to sever,And, huzzah for King George and our country forever!Derry down, etc.
Come listen, good neighbors of every degree,Whose hearts, like your purses, are open and free,Let this pole a monument ever remain,Of the folly and arts of the time-serving train.Derry down, down, hey derry down.
Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground,Resembles their scheming, so low and profound;The dark underminings, and base dirty ends,On which the success of the faction depends.Derry down, etc.
The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put us in mind,As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with the wind,That no faith can be plac'd in the words of our foes,Who change as the wind of their interest blows.Derry down, etc.
The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and so neat,Resembles too closely their fraud and deceit,If the outside's but guarded, they care not a pinHow rotten and hollow the heart is within.Derry down, etc.
Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, away,Who strive to cajole us in hopes to betray;Leave the pole for the stroke of the lightning to sever,And, huzzah for King George and our country forever!Derry down, etc.
Two regiments of British troops arrived at Boston on March 5, 1768, and annoyed the people in many ways. Brawls were frequent, and by the beginning of 1770 the tension of feeling had reached the snapping point. The "Massachusetts Liberty Song" and "The British Grenadier" did not go well together.
Two regiments of British troops arrived at Boston on March 5, 1768, and annoyed the people in many ways. Brawls were frequent, and by the beginning of 1770 the tension of feeling had reached the snapping point. The "Massachusetts Liberty Song" and "The British Grenadier" did not go well together.
THE BRITISH GRENADIER
Come, come fill up your glasses,And drink a health to thoseWho carry caps and pouches,And wear their looped clothes.For be you Whig or Tory,Or any mortal thing,Be sure that you give gloryTo George, our gracious King.For if you prove rebellious,He'll thunder in your earsHuzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadiers!And when the wars are over,We'll march by beat of drum,The ladies cry "So, Ho girls,The Grenadiers have come!The Grenadiers who alwaysWith love our hearts do cheer.Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadier!"
Come, come fill up your glasses,And drink a health to thoseWho carry caps and pouches,And wear their looped clothes.For be you Whig or Tory,Or any mortal thing,Be sure that you give gloryTo George, our gracious King.For if you prove rebellious,He'll thunder in your earsHuzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadiers!And when the wars are over,We'll march by beat of drum,The ladies cry "So, Ho girls,The Grenadiers have come!The Grenadiers who alwaysWith love our hearts do cheer.Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadier!"
Come, come fill up your glasses,And drink a health to thoseWho carry caps and pouches,And wear their looped clothes.For be you Whig or Tory,Or any mortal thing,Be sure that you give gloryTo George, our gracious King.For if you prove rebellious,He'll thunder in your earsHuzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadiers!
And when the wars are over,We'll march by beat of drum,The ladies cry "So, Ho girls,The Grenadiers have come!The Grenadiers who alwaysWith love our hearts do cheer.Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!For the British Grenadier!"
On the evening of March 5 a crowd collected near the barracks and some blows were exchanged; a sentinel in King Street knocked down a boy, and was about to be mobbed, when Captain Preston and seven privates came to his assistance. The crowd pressed upon their levelled pieces, which were suddenly discharged, killing four men and wounding seven. Crispus Attucks, a mulatto slave, was the first to fall.
On the evening of March 5 a crowd collected near the barracks and some blows were exchanged; a sentinel in King Street knocked down a boy, and was about to be mobbed, when Captain Preston and seven privates came to his assistance. The crowd pressed upon their levelled pieces, which were suddenly discharged, killing four men and wounding seven. Crispus Attucks, a mulatto slave, was the first to fall.
CRISPUS ATTUCKS
[March 5, 1770]
Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story?Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory.But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride,If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died.Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name—With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in flame?Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny;We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die—As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made;That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid!When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their aim;Men see what the royal hirelings saw—a multitude and a flame;But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street,While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet!O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race!Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place;The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas;Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies;Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul—Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all!One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken,There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men!But alien is one—of class, not race—he has drawn the line for himself;His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf;His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed his life-stream's hue;He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue:Patrician, aristocrat, Tory—whatever his age or name,To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime.Wherever the race, the law, the land,—whatever the time or throne,The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks apart;Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart;Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are bled,That the bluest blood is putrid blood—that the people's blood is red!And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day;The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray.Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown;His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down;His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow;For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low.Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may,Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for aye.They were lawless hinds to the lackeys—but martyrs to Paul Revere;And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear.Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock;When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock;When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse;When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse;When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde—Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword?Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here!By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere!Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight!By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate!By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still!By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill!Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread;The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead.There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet,The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete;There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives—The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves!There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good?There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood;There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows;There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows;There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster,The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master!Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved,And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved?His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's years,Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears.He lived with men like a soul condemned—derided, defamed, and mute;Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute.His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward;His love!—O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord;Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave;For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave!And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled?Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage stilled?And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's soul?Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole?That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed?That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed?Has he learned—the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were sold—has he,With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!"Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks knew—When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two?Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand yearsIn blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and tearsWere heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to standFrom the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land?That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human vanWhich others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong began?For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn,Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his turn;For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night;For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light;For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right.And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day;The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way;God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought;And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought!John Boyle O'Reilly.
Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story?Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory.But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride,If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died.Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name—With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in flame?Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny;We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die—As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made;That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid!When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their aim;Men see what the royal hirelings saw—a multitude and a flame;But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street,While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet!O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race!Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place;The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas;Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies;Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul—Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all!One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken,There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men!But alien is one—of class, not race—he has drawn the line for himself;His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf;His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed his life-stream's hue;He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue:Patrician, aristocrat, Tory—whatever his age or name,To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime.Wherever the race, the law, the land,—whatever the time or throne,The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks apart;Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart;Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are bled,That the bluest blood is putrid blood—that the people's blood is red!And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day;The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray.Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown;His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down;His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow;For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low.Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may,Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for aye.They were lawless hinds to the lackeys—but martyrs to Paul Revere;And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear.Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock;When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock;When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse;When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse;When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde—Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword?Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here!By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere!Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight!By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate!By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still!By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill!Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread;The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead.There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet,The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete;There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives—The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves!There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good?There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood;There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows;There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows;There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster,The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master!Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved,And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved?His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's years,Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears.He lived with men like a soul condemned—derided, defamed, and mute;Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute.His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward;His love!—O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord;Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave;For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave!And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled?Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage stilled?And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's soul?Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole?That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed?That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed?Has he learned—the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were sold—has he,With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!"Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks knew—When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two?Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand yearsIn blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and tearsWere heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to standFrom the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land?That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human vanWhich others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong began?For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn,Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his turn;For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night;For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light;For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right.And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day;The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way;God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought;And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought!John Boyle O'Reilly.
Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story?Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory.But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride,If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died.
Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name—With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in flame?Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny;We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die—As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made;That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid!
When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their aim;Men see what the royal hirelings saw—a multitude and a flame;But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street,While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet!
O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race!Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place;The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas;Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies;Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul—Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all!One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken,There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men!
But alien is one—of class, not race—he has drawn the line for himself;His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf;His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed his life-stream's hue;He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue:Patrician, aristocrat, Tory—whatever his age or name,To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime.Wherever the race, the law, the land,—whatever the time or throne,The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.
Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks apart;Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart;Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are bled,That the bluest blood is putrid blood—that the people's blood is red!
And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day;The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray.Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown;His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down;His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow;For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low.
Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may,Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for aye.They were lawless hinds to the lackeys—but martyrs to Paul Revere;And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear.Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock;When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock;When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse;When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse;When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde—Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword?
Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here!By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere!Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight!By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate!By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still!By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill!
Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread;The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead.There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet,The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete;There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives—The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves!
There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good?There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood;There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows;There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows;There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster,The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master!
Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved,And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved?His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's years,Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears.He lived with men like a soul condemned—derided, defamed, and mute;Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute.His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward;His love!—O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord;Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave;For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave!
And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled?Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage stilled?And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's soul?Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole?That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed?That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed?
Has he learned—the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were sold—has he,With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!"Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks knew—When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two?Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand yearsIn blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and tearsWere heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to standFrom the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land?That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human vanWhich others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong began?
For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn,Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his turn;For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night;For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light;For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right.
And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day;The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way;God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought;And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought!
John Boyle O'Reilly.
This insignificant street riot was the famous "Boston Massacre." It created a great stir, and the victims were buried with military honors on March 8, the bodies being deposited in a single vault. A few days later, Paul Revere engraved and printed a large hand-bill giving a picture of the scene, accompanied by the following lines:
This insignificant street riot was the famous "Boston Massacre." It created a great stir, and the victims were buried with military honors on March 8, the bodies being deposited in a single vault. A few days later, Paul Revere engraved and printed a large hand-bill giving a picture of the scene, accompanied by the following lines:
UNHAPPY BOSTON
[March 8, 1770]
Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deploreThy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore.While faithless Preston and his savage bands,With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands;Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey,Approve the carnage and enjoy the day.If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung,If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue,Or if a weeping world can aught appeaseThe plaintive ghosts of victims such as these;The patriot's copious tears for each are shed,A glorious tribute which embalms the dead.But know, Fate summons to that awful goal,Where justice strips the murderer of his soul:Should venal C——ts, the scandal of the land,Snatch the relentless villain from her hand,Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'dShall reach a judge who never can be bribed.Paul Revere.
Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deploreThy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore.While faithless Preston and his savage bands,With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands;Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey,Approve the carnage and enjoy the day.If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung,If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue,Or if a weeping world can aught appeaseThe plaintive ghosts of victims such as these;The patriot's copious tears for each are shed,A glorious tribute which embalms the dead.But know, Fate summons to that awful goal,Where justice strips the murderer of his soul:Should venal C——ts, the scandal of the land,Snatch the relentless villain from her hand,Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'dShall reach a judge who never can be bribed.Paul Revere.
Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deploreThy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore.While faithless Preston and his savage bands,With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands;Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey,Approve the carnage and enjoy the day.If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung,If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue,Or if a weeping world can aught appeaseThe plaintive ghosts of victims such as these;The patriot's copious tears for each are shed,A glorious tribute which embalms the dead.But know, Fate summons to that awful goal,Where justice strips the murderer of his soul:Should venal C——ts, the scandal of the land,Snatch the relentless villain from her hand,Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'dShall reach a judge who never can be bribed.
Paul Revere.
A conflict of a much more serious nature took place at Alamance, N. C., on May 7, 1771, between a body of colonists, goaded to rebellion by repeated acts of extortion, and a force of British regulars under Governor Tryon. The colonistswere totally defeated and left two hundred dead and wounded on the field.
A conflict of a much more serious nature took place at Alamance, N. C., on May 7, 1771, between a body of colonists, goaded to rebellion by repeated acts of extortion, and a force of British regulars under Governor Tryon. The colonistswere totally defeated and left two hundred dead and wounded on the field.
ALAMANCE
[May 7, 1771]
No stately column marks the hallowed placeWhere silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust:The first free martyrs of a glorious race,Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust.The rustic ploughman at the early mornThe yielding furrow turns with heedless tread,Or tends with frugal care the springing corn,Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled.Above their rest the golden harvest waves,The glorious stars stand sentinels on high,While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves,The winding river murmurs, mourning, by.No stern ambition moved them to the deed:In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die.The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,"God and their country's right" their battle cry.But holier watchers here their vigils keepThan storied urn or monumental stone;For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,And Plenty smiles above their bloody home.Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame;And as their country's glories shall advance,Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name,Thou first-fought field of Freedom—Alamance.Seymour W. Whiting.
No stately column marks the hallowed placeWhere silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust:The first free martyrs of a glorious race,Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust.The rustic ploughman at the early mornThe yielding furrow turns with heedless tread,Or tends with frugal care the springing corn,Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled.Above their rest the golden harvest waves,The glorious stars stand sentinels on high,While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves,The winding river murmurs, mourning, by.No stern ambition moved them to the deed:In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die.The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,"God and their country's right" their battle cry.But holier watchers here their vigils keepThan storied urn or monumental stone;For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,And Plenty smiles above their bloody home.Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame;And as their country's glories shall advance,Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name,Thou first-fought field of Freedom—Alamance.Seymour W. Whiting.
No stately column marks the hallowed placeWhere silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust:The first free martyrs of a glorious race,Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust.
The rustic ploughman at the early mornThe yielding furrow turns with heedless tread,Or tends with frugal care the springing corn,Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled.
Above their rest the golden harvest waves,The glorious stars stand sentinels on high,While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves,The winding river murmurs, mourning, by.
No stern ambition moved them to the deed:In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die.The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,"God and their country's right" their battle cry.
But holier watchers here their vigils keepThan storied urn or monumental stone;For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,And Plenty smiles above their bloody home.
Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame;And as their country's glories shall advance,Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name,Thou first-fought field of Freedom—Alamance.
Seymour W. Whiting.
The first American "victory" occurred on the night of June 9, 1772, when the British eight-gun schooner Gaspee was captured and burned to the water's edge. For some months the crew of the Gaspee, commissioned to enforce the revenue acts in Narragansett Bay, had been stopping vessels, seizing goods, stealing sheep and hogs, and committing other depredations along the shore. On June 9, while pursuing the Providence Packet, the schooner ran aground, and that night was boarded by a party of Rhode Islanders, the crew overpowered, and the boat burned.
The first American "victory" occurred on the night of June 9, 1772, when the British eight-gun schooner Gaspee was captured and burned to the water's edge. For some months the crew of the Gaspee, commissioned to enforce the revenue acts in Narragansett Bay, had been stopping vessels, seizing goods, stealing sheep and hogs, and committing other depredations along the shore. On June 9, while pursuing the Providence Packet, the schooner ran aground, and that night was boarded by a party of Rhode Islanders, the crew overpowered, and the boat burned.
A NEW SONG CALLED THE GASPEE
[June 9-10, 1772]
'Twas in the reign of George the ThirdThe public peace was much disturb'dBy ships of war, that came and laidWithin our ports to stop our trade.In seventeen hundred seventy-two,In Newport harbor lay a crewThat play'd the parts of pirates there,The sons of Freedom could not bear.Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase—Such actions, sure, were very base;No honest coasters could pass byBut what they would let some shot fly.Which did provoke to high degreeThose true-born sons of Liberty,So that they could no longer bearThose sons of Belial staying there.But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out,That William Doddington so stout,Commander of the Gaspee tender,Which he had reason to remember—Because, as people do assert,He almost had his just desertHere, on the tenth day of last June,Between the hours of twelve and one—Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah,Of whom one Linsey was commander;They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound,And there the rascal got aground.The news of it flew, that very day,That they on Nanquit Point did lay,That night, about half after ten,Some Narragansett Indian-men—Being sixty-four, if I remember,Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender:And what was best of all their tricks,They in his breech a ball did fix.They set the men upon the land,And burn'd her up, we understand;Which thing provoked the king so high,He said, "those men should surely die."So, if he can but find them out,The hangman he'll employ, no doubt:For he has declared, in his passion,"He'll have them tried in a new fashion."Now for to find those people out,King George has offered, very stout,One thousand pounds to find out oneThat wounded William Doddington.One thousand more he says he'll spare,For those who say they sheriffs were:One thousand more there doth remainFor to find out the leader's name.Likewise, one hundred pounds per man,For any one of all the clan.But let him try his utmost skill,I'm apt to think he never willFind out any of those hearts of gold,Though he should offer fifty fold.
'Twas in the reign of George the ThirdThe public peace was much disturb'dBy ships of war, that came and laidWithin our ports to stop our trade.In seventeen hundred seventy-two,In Newport harbor lay a crewThat play'd the parts of pirates there,The sons of Freedom could not bear.Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase—Such actions, sure, were very base;No honest coasters could pass byBut what they would let some shot fly.Which did provoke to high degreeThose true-born sons of Liberty,So that they could no longer bearThose sons of Belial staying there.But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out,That William Doddington so stout,Commander of the Gaspee tender,Which he had reason to remember—Because, as people do assert,He almost had his just desertHere, on the tenth day of last June,Between the hours of twelve and one—Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah,Of whom one Linsey was commander;They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound,And there the rascal got aground.The news of it flew, that very day,That they on Nanquit Point did lay,That night, about half after ten,Some Narragansett Indian-men—Being sixty-four, if I remember,Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender:And what was best of all their tricks,They in his breech a ball did fix.They set the men upon the land,And burn'd her up, we understand;Which thing provoked the king so high,He said, "those men should surely die."So, if he can but find them out,The hangman he'll employ, no doubt:For he has declared, in his passion,"He'll have them tried in a new fashion."Now for to find those people out,King George has offered, very stout,One thousand pounds to find out oneThat wounded William Doddington.One thousand more he says he'll spare,For those who say they sheriffs were:One thousand more there doth remainFor to find out the leader's name.Likewise, one hundred pounds per man,For any one of all the clan.But let him try his utmost skill,I'm apt to think he never willFind out any of those hearts of gold,Though he should offer fifty fold.
'Twas in the reign of George the ThirdThe public peace was much disturb'dBy ships of war, that came and laidWithin our ports to stop our trade.
In seventeen hundred seventy-two,In Newport harbor lay a crewThat play'd the parts of pirates there,The sons of Freedom could not bear.
Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase—Such actions, sure, were very base;No honest coasters could pass byBut what they would let some shot fly.
Which did provoke to high degreeThose true-born sons of Liberty,So that they could no longer bearThose sons of Belial staying there.
But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out,That William Doddington so stout,Commander of the Gaspee tender,Which he had reason to remember—
Because, as people do assert,He almost had his just desertHere, on the tenth day of last June,Between the hours of twelve and one—
Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah,Of whom one Linsey was commander;They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound,And there the rascal got aground.
The news of it flew, that very day,That they on Nanquit Point did lay,That night, about half after ten,Some Narragansett Indian-men—
Being sixty-four, if I remember,Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender:And what was best of all their tricks,They in his breech a ball did fix.
They set the men upon the land,And burn'd her up, we understand;Which thing provoked the king so high,He said, "those men should surely die."
So, if he can but find them out,The hangman he'll employ, no doubt:For he has declared, in his passion,"He'll have them tried in a new fashion."
Now for to find those people out,King George has offered, very stout,One thousand pounds to find out oneThat wounded William Doddington.
One thousand more he says he'll spare,For those who say they sheriffs were:One thousand more there doth remainFor to find out the leader's name.
Likewise, one hundred pounds per man,For any one of all the clan.But let him try his utmost skill,I'm apt to think he never willFind out any of those hearts of gold,Though he should offer fifty fold.
The duty on tea, imposed five years before by Townshend, had been retained by the British government as a matter of principle, and in the autumn of 1773 the King determined to assert the obnoxious principle which the tax involved. Several ships loaded with tea were accordingly started for America. On Sunday, November 28, the first of these arrived at Boston, and two others came in a few days later. The town went wild, meeting after meeting was held, and on the night of Tuesday, December 16, 1773, a band of about twenty, disguised as Indians, boarded the ships, cut open the tea-chests and flung the contents into the water.
The duty on tea, imposed five years before by Townshend, had been retained by the British government as a matter of principle, and in the autumn of 1773 the King determined to assert the obnoxious principle which the tax involved. Several ships loaded with tea were accordingly started for America. On Sunday, November 28, the first of these arrived at Boston, and two others came in a few days later. The town went wild, meeting after meeting was held, and on the night of Tuesday, December 16, 1773, a band of about twenty, disguised as Indians, boarded the ships, cut open the tea-chests and flung the contents into the water.
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY
[December 16, 1773]
No! never such a draught was pouredSince Hebe served with nectarThe bright Olympians and their Lord,Her over-kind protector,—Since Father Noah squeezed the grapeAnd took to such behavingAs would have shamed our grandsire apeBefore the days of shaving,—No! ne'er was mingled such a draughtIn palace, hall, or arbor,As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffedThat night in Boston Harbor!It kept King George so long awakeHis brain at last got addled,It made the nerves of Britain shake,With sevenscore millions saddled;Before that bitter cup was drainedAmid the roar of cannon,The Western war-cloud's crimson stainedThe Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;Full many a six-foot grenadierThe flattened grass had measured,And many a mother many a yearHer tearful memories treasured;Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,The mighty realms were troubled,The storm broke loose, but first of allThe Boston teapot bubbled!An evening party,—only that,No formal invitation,No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,No feast in contemplation,No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,No flowers, no songs, no dancing,—A tribe of red men, axe in hand,—Behold the guests advancing!How fast the stragglers join the throng,From stall and workshop gathered!The lively barber skips alongAnd leaves a chin half-lathered;The smith has flung his hammer down,—The horseshoe still is glowing;The truant tapster at the CrownHas left a beer-cask flowing;The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,And trot behind their master;Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,—The crowd is hurrying faster,—Out from the Millpond's purlieus gushThe streams of white-faced millers,And down their slippery alleys rushThe lusty young Fort-Hillers;The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,—The tories seize the omen:"Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to doFor England's rebel foemen,'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,That fire the mob with treason,—When these we shoot and those we hangThe town will come to reason."On—on to where the tea-ships ride!And now their ranks are forming,—A rush, and up the Dartmouth's sideThe Mohawk band is swarming!See the fierce natives! What a glimpseOf paint and fur and feather,As all at once the full-grown impsLight on the deck together!A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,A blanket hides the breeches,—And out the cursèd cargo leaps,And overboard it pitches!O woman, at the evening boardSo gracious, sweet, and purring,So happy while the tea is poured,So blest while spoons are stirring,What martyr can compare with thee,The mother, wife, or daughter,That night, instead of best Bohea,Condemned to milk and water!Ah, little dreams the quiet dameWho plies with rock and spindleThe patient flax, how great a flameYon little spark shall kindle!The lurid morning shall revealA fire no king can smotherWhere British flint and Boston steelHave clashed against each other!Old charters shrivel in its track,His Worship's bench has crumbled,It climbs and clasps the union-jack,Its blazoned pomp is humbled,The flags go down on land and seaLike corn before the reapers;So burned the fire that brewed the teaThat Boston served her keepers!The waves that wrought a century's wreckHave rolled o'er whig and tory;The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deckStill live in song and story;The waters in the rebel bayHave kept the tea-leaf savor;Our old North-Enders in their sprayStill taste a Hyson flavor;And Freedom's teacup still o'erflowsWith ever fresh libations,To cheat of slumber all her foesAnd cheer the wakening nations!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
No! never such a draught was pouredSince Hebe served with nectarThe bright Olympians and their Lord,Her over-kind protector,—Since Father Noah squeezed the grapeAnd took to such behavingAs would have shamed our grandsire apeBefore the days of shaving,—No! ne'er was mingled such a draughtIn palace, hall, or arbor,As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffedThat night in Boston Harbor!It kept King George so long awakeHis brain at last got addled,It made the nerves of Britain shake,With sevenscore millions saddled;Before that bitter cup was drainedAmid the roar of cannon,The Western war-cloud's crimson stainedThe Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;Full many a six-foot grenadierThe flattened grass had measured,And many a mother many a yearHer tearful memories treasured;Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,The mighty realms were troubled,The storm broke loose, but first of allThe Boston teapot bubbled!An evening party,—only that,No formal invitation,No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,No feast in contemplation,No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,No flowers, no songs, no dancing,—A tribe of red men, axe in hand,—Behold the guests advancing!How fast the stragglers join the throng,From stall and workshop gathered!The lively barber skips alongAnd leaves a chin half-lathered;The smith has flung his hammer down,—The horseshoe still is glowing;The truant tapster at the CrownHas left a beer-cask flowing;The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,And trot behind their master;Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,—The crowd is hurrying faster,—Out from the Millpond's purlieus gushThe streams of white-faced millers,And down their slippery alleys rushThe lusty young Fort-Hillers;The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,—The tories seize the omen:"Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to doFor England's rebel foemen,'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,That fire the mob with treason,—When these we shoot and those we hangThe town will come to reason."On—on to where the tea-ships ride!And now their ranks are forming,—A rush, and up the Dartmouth's sideThe Mohawk band is swarming!See the fierce natives! What a glimpseOf paint and fur and feather,As all at once the full-grown impsLight on the deck together!A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,A blanket hides the breeches,—And out the cursèd cargo leaps,And overboard it pitches!O woman, at the evening boardSo gracious, sweet, and purring,So happy while the tea is poured,So blest while spoons are stirring,What martyr can compare with thee,The mother, wife, or daughter,That night, instead of best Bohea,Condemned to milk and water!Ah, little dreams the quiet dameWho plies with rock and spindleThe patient flax, how great a flameYon little spark shall kindle!The lurid morning shall revealA fire no king can smotherWhere British flint and Boston steelHave clashed against each other!Old charters shrivel in its track,His Worship's bench has crumbled,It climbs and clasps the union-jack,Its blazoned pomp is humbled,The flags go down on land and seaLike corn before the reapers;So burned the fire that brewed the teaThat Boston served her keepers!The waves that wrought a century's wreckHave rolled o'er whig and tory;The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deckStill live in song and story;The waters in the rebel bayHave kept the tea-leaf savor;Our old North-Enders in their sprayStill taste a Hyson flavor;And Freedom's teacup still o'erflowsWith ever fresh libations,To cheat of slumber all her foesAnd cheer the wakening nations!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
No! never such a draught was pouredSince Hebe served with nectarThe bright Olympians and their Lord,Her over-kind protector,—Since Father Noah squeezed the grapeAnd took to such behavingAs would have shamed our grandsire apeBefore the days of shaving,—No! ne'er was mingled such a draughtIn palace, hall, or arbor,As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffedThat night in Boston Harbor!It kept King George so long awakeHis brain at last got addled,It made the nerves of Britain shake,With sevenscore millions saddled;Before that bitter cup was drainedAmid the roar of cannon,The Western war-cloud's crimson stainedThe Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;Full many a six-foot grenadierThe flattened grass had measured,And many a mother many a yearHer tearful memories treasured;Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,The mighty realms were troubled,The storm broke loose, but first of allThe Boston teapot bubbled!
An evening party,—only that,No formal invitation,No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,No feast in contemplation,No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,No flowers, no songs, no dancing,—A tribe of red men, axe in hand,—Behold the guests advancing!How fast the stragglers join the throng,From stall and workshop gathered!The lively barber skips alongAnd leaves a chin half-lathered;The smith has flung his hammer down,—The horseshoe still is glowing;The truant tapster at the CrownHas left a beer-cask flowing;The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,And trot behind their master;Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,—The crowd is hurrying faster,—Out from the Millpond's purlieus gushThe streams of white-faced millers,And down their slippery alleys rushThe lusty young Fort-Hillers;The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,—The tories seize the omen:"Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to doFor England's rebel foemen,'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,That fire the mob with treason,—When these we shoot and those we hangThe town will come to reason."
On—on to where the tea-ships ride!And now their ranks are forming,—A rush, and up the Dartmouth's sideThe Mohawk band is swarming!See the fierce natives! What a glimpseOf paint and fur and feather,As all at once the full-grown impsLight on the deck together!A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,A blanket hides the breeches,—And out the cursèd cargo leaps,And overboard it pitches!
O woman, at the evening boardSo gracious, sweet, and purring,So happy while the tea is poured,So blest while spoons are stirring,What martyr can compare with thee,The mother, wife, or daughter,That night, instead of best Bohea,Condemned to milk and water!
Ah, little dreams the quiet dameWho plies with rock and spindleThe patient flax, how great a flameYon little spark shall kindle!The lurid morning shall revealA fire no king can smotherWhere British flint and Boston steelHave clashed against each other!Old charters shrivel in its track,His Worship's bench has crumbled,It climbs and clasps the union-jack,Its blazoned pomp is humbled,The flags go down on land and seaLike corn before the reapers;So burned the fire that brewed the teaThat Boston served her keepers!
The waves that wrought a century's wreckHave rolled o'er whig and tory;The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deckStill live in song and story;The waters in the rebel bayHave kept the tea-leaf savor;Our old North-Enders in their sprayStill taste a Hyson flavor;And Freedom's teacup still o'erflowsWith ever fresh libations,To cheat of slumber all her foesAnd cheer the wakening nations!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Next morning, Paul Revere, booted and spurred, started for Philadelphia with the news that Boston had at last thrown down the gauntlet. The following song appeared in thePennsylvania Packeta few days after Revere reached Philadelphia.
Next morning, Paul Revere, booted and spurred, started for Philadelphia with the news that Boston had at last thrown down the gauntlet. The following song appeared in thePennsylvania Packeta few days after Revere reached Philadelphia.
A NEW SONG
[December 16, 1773]
As near beauteous Boston lying,On the gently swelling flood,Without jack or pendant flying,Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.Just as glorious Sol was setting,On the wharf, a numerous crew,Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,Suddenly appeared in view.Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,Weapons new for warlike deed,Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,They approached with dreadful speed.O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,Three bright angel forms were seen;This was Hampden, that was Sidney,With fair Liberty between."Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish,Soon the triumph shall be won;Scarce shall setting Phœbus vanish,Ere the deathless deed be done."Quick as thought the ships were boarded,Hatches burst and chests displayed;Axes, hammers help afforded;What a glorious crash they made.Squash into the deep descended,Cursed weed of China's coast;Thus at once our fears were ended;British rights shall ne'er be lost.Captains! once more hoist your streamers,Spread your sails, and plough the wave;Tell your masters they were dreamers,When they thought to cheat the brave.
As near beauteous Boston lying,On the gently swelling flood,Without jack or pendant flying,Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.Just as glorious Sol was setting,On the wharf, a numerous crew,Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,Suddenly appeared in view.Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,Weapons new for warlike deed,Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,They approached with dreadful speed.O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,Three bright angel forms were seen;This was Hampden, that was Sidney,With fair Liberty between."Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish,Soon the triumph shall be won;Scarce shall setting Phœbus vanish,Ere the deathless deed be done."Quick as thought the ships were boarded,Hatches burst and chests displayed;Axes, hammers help afforded;What a glorious crash they made.Squash into the deep descended,Cursed weed of China's coast;Thus at once our fears were ended;British rights shall ne'er be lost.Captains! once more hoist your streamers,Spread your sails, and plough the wave;Tell your masters they were dreamers,When they thought to cheat the brave.
As near beauteous Boston lying,On the gently swelling flood,Without jack or pendant flying,Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.
Just as glorious Sol was setting,On the wharf, a numerous crew,Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,Suddenly appeared in view.
Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,Weapons new for warlike deed,Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,They approached with dreadful speed.
O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,Three bright angel forms were seen;This was Hampden, that was Sidney,With fair Liberty between.
"Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish,Soon the triumph shall be won;Scarce shall setting Phœbus vanish,Ere the deathless deed be done."
Quick as thought the ships were boarded,Hatches burst and chests displayed;Axes, hammers help afforded;What a glorious crash they made.
Squash into the deep descended,Cursed weed of China's coast;Thus at once our fears were ended;British rights shall ne'er be lost.
Captains! once more hoist your streamers,Spread your sails, and plough the wave;Tell your masters they were dreamers,When they thought to cheat the brave.
News of the insurrection was received in England with the greatest indignation, and measures of reprisal were at once undertaken. No ships were to be allowed to enter the port of Boston until the rebellious town should have repaid the East India Company for the loss of its tea; the charter of Massachusetts was annulled and her free government destroyed; and General Gage was sent over with four regiments to take possession of the town.
News of the insurrection was received in England with the greatest indignation, and measures of reprisal were at once undertaken. No ships were to be allowed to enter the port of Boston until the rebellious town should have repaid the East India Company for the loss of its tea; the charter of Massachusetts was annulled and her free government destroyed; and General Gage was sent over with four regiments to take possession of the town.
HOW WE BECAME A NATION
[April 15, 1774]
When George the King would punish folkWho dared resist his angry will—Resist him with their hearts of oakThat neither King nor Council broke—He told Lord North to mend his quill,And sent his Parliament a Bill.The Boston Port Bill was the thingHe flourished in his royal hand;A subtle lash with scorpion sting,Across the seas he made it swing,And with its cruel thong he plannedTo quell the disobedient land.His minions heard it sing, and bareThe port of Boston felt his wrath;They let no ship cast anchor there,They summoned Hunger and Despair,—And curses in an aftermathFollowed their desolating path.No coal might enter there, nor wood,Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;No drugs for dying pangs, no foodFor any mother's little brood."Now," said the King, "we have our chance,We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."No other flags lit up the bay,Like full-blown blossoms in the air,Than where the British war-ships lay;The wharves were idle; all the dayThe idle men, grown gaunt and spare,Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.Then in across the meadow land,From lonely farm and hunter's tent,From fertile field and fallow strand,Pouring it out with lavish hand,The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,And laughed at King and Parliament.To bring them succor, MarbleheadJoyous her deep-sea fishing sought.Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,Old many-rivered Newbury sped,And Groton in her granaries wrought,And generous flocks old Windham brought.Rice from the Carolinas came,Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,And, with a spirit all aflame,Tobacco-leaf and corn and gameThe Midlands sent; and in his gorgeThe Colonies defied King George!And Hartford hung, in black array,Her town-house, and at half-mast thereThe flags flowed, and the bells all dayTolled heavily; and far awayIn great Virginia's solemn airThe House of Burgesses held prayer.Down long glades of the forest floorThe same thrill ran through every vein,And down the long Atlantic's shore;Its heat the tyrant's fetters toreAnd welded them through stress and strainOf long years to a mightier chain.That mighty chain with links of steelBound all the Old Thirteen at last,Through one electric pulse to feelThe common woe, the common weal.And that great day the Port Bill passedMade us a nation hard and fast.Harriet Prescott Spofford.
When George the King would punish folkWho dared resist his angry will—Resist him with their hearts of oakThat neither King nor Council broke—He told Lord North to mend his quill,And sent his Parliament a Bill.The Boston Port Bill was the thingHe flourished in his royal hand;A subtle lash with scorpion sting,Across the seas he made it swing,And with its cruel thong he plannedTo quell the disobedient land.His minions heard it sing, and bareThe port of Boston felt his wrath;They let no ship cast anchor there,They summoned Hunger and Despair,—And curses in an aftermathFollowed their desolating path.No coal might enter there, nor wood,Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;No drugs for dying pangs, no foodFor any mother's little brood."Now," said the King, "we have our chance,We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."No other flags lit up the bay,Like full-blown blossoms in the air,Than where the British war-ships lay;The wharves were idle; all the dayThe idle men, grown gaunt and spare,Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.Then in across the meadow land,From lonely farm and hunter's tent,From fertile field and fallow strand,Pouring it out with lavish hand,The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,And laughed at King and Parliament.To bring them succor, MarbleheadJoyous her deep-sea fishing sought.Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,Old many-rivered Newbury sped,And Groton in her granaries wrought,And generous flocks old Windham brought.Rice from the Carolinas came,Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,And, with a spirit all aflame,Tobacco-leaf and corn and gameThe Midlands sent; and in his gorgeThe Colonies defied King George!And Hartford hung, in black array,Her town-house, and at half-mast thereThe flags flowed, and the bells all dayTolled heavily; and far awayIn great Virginia's solemn airThe House of Burgesses held prayer.Down long glades of the forest floorThe same thrill ran through every vein,And down the long Atlantic's shore;Its heat the tyrant's fetters toreAnd welded them through stress and strainOf long years to a mightier chain.That mighty chain with links of steelBound all the Old Thirteen at last,Through one electric pulse to feelThe common woe, the common weal.And that great day the Port Bill passedMade us a nation hard and fast.Harriet Prescott Spofford.
When George the King would punish folkWho dared resist his angry will—Resist him with their hearts of oakThat neither King nor Council broke—He told Lord North to mend his quill,And sent his Parliament a Bill.
The Boston Port Bill was the thingHe flourished in his royal hand;A subtle lash with scorpion sting,Across the seas he made it swing,And with its cruel thong he plannedTo quell the disobedient land.
His minions heard it sing, and bareThe port of Boston felt his wrath;They let no ship cast anchor there,They summoned Hunger and Despair,—And curses in an aftermathFollowed their desolating path.
No coal might enter there, nor wood,Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;No drugs for dying pangs, no foodFor any mother's little brood."Now," said the King, "we have our chance,We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."
No other flags lit up the bay,Like full-blown blossoms in the air,Than where the British war-ships lay;The wharves were idle; all the dayThe idle men, grown gaunt and spare,Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.
Then in across the meadow land,From lonely farm and hunter's tent,From fertile field and fallow strand,Pouring it out with lavish hand,The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,And laughed at King and Parliament.
To bring them succor, MarbleheadJoyous her deep-sea fishing sought.Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,Old many-rivered Newbury sped,And Groton in her granaries wrought,And generous flocks old Windham brought.
Rice from the Carolinas came,Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,And, with a spirit all aflame,Tobacco-leaf and corn and gameThe Midlands sent; and in his gorgeThe Colonies defied King George!
And Hartford hung, in black array,Her town-house, and at half-mast thereThe flags flowed, and the bells all dayTolled heavily; and far awayIn great Virginia's solemn airThe House of Burgesses held prayer.
Down long glades of the forest floorThe same thrill ran through every vein,And down the long Atlantic's shore;Its heat the tyrant's fetters toreAnd welded them through stress and strainOf long years to a mightier chain.
That mighty chain with links of steelBound all the Old Thirteen at last,Through one electric pulse to feelThe common woe, the common weal.And that great day the Port Bill passedMade us a nation hard and fast.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.
Gage arrived at Boston in May, 1774, and at once issued a proclamation calling upon the inhabitants to be loyal, and warning them of his intention to maintain the authority of the King at any cost.
Gage arrived at Boston in May, 1774, and at once issued a proclamation calling upon the inhabitants to be loyal, and warning them of his intention to maintain the authority of the King at any cost.
A PROCLAMATION
[May, 1774]
America! thou fractious nation,Attend thy master's proclamation!Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage,Determin'd come the war to wage.With the united powers sent forth,Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North;To scourge your insolence, my choice,While England mourns and Scots rejoice!Bostonia first shall feel my power,And gasping midst the dreadful showerOf ministerial rage, shall cry,Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die.Then shall my thundering cannons rattle,My hardy veterans march to battle,Against Virginia's hostile land,To humble that rebellious band.At my approach her trembling swainsShall quit well-cultivated plains,To seek the inhospitable wood;Or try, like swine of old, the flood.Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice!Your voice lift up, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness on each tongue,The mighty praise of Bute be sung.The praise of Mansfield, and of North,Let next your hymns of joy set forth,Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage,Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage.Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on.Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won!Your Gage has won Virginia's shore,And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more.Hail, Middlesex!oh happy county!Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty,Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear,Thy wives and widows drop no tear.Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feelThe force of unrelenting steel;What brute would give the ox a strokeWho bends his neck to meet the yoke?To Murray bend the humble knee;He shall protect you under me;His generous pen shall not be mute,But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute.By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught,By all your country Scotchmen thought;Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me,And be as blest as slaves can be.The Virginia Gazette, 1774.
America! thou fractious nation,Attend thy master's proclamation!Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage,Determin'd come the war to wage.With the united powers sent forth,Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North;To scourge your insolence, my choice,While England mourns and Scots rejoice!Bostonia first shall feel my power,And gasping midst the dreadful showerOf ministerial rage, shall cry,Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die.Then shall my thundering cannons rattle,My hardy veterans march to battle,Against Virginia's hostile land,To humble that rebellious band.At my approach her trembling swainsShall quit well-cultivated plains,To seek the inhospitable wood;Or try, like swine of old, the flood.Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice!Your voice lift up, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness on each tongue,The mighty praise of Bute be sung.The praise of Mansfield, and of North,Let next your hymns of joy set forth,Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage,Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage.Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on.Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won!Your Gage has won Virginia's shore,And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more.Hail, Middlesex!oh happy county!Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty,Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear,Thy wives and widows drop no tear.Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feelThe force of unrelenting steel;What brute would give the ox a strokeWho bends his neck to meet the yoke?To Murray bend the humble knee;He shall protect you under me;His generous pen shall not be mute,But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute.By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught,By all your country Scotchmen thought;Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me,And be as blest as slaves can be.The Virginia Gazette, 1774.
America! thou fractious nation,Attend thy master's proclamation!Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage,Determin'd come the war to wage.
With the united powers sent forth,Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North;To scourge your insolence, my choice,While England mourns and Scots rejoice!
Bostonia first shall feel my power,And gasping midst the dreadful showerOf ministerial rage, shall cry,Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die.
Then shall my thundering cannons rattle,My hardy veterans march to battle,Against Virginia's hostile land,To humble that rebellious band.
At my approach her trembling swainsShall quit well-cultivated plains,To seek the inhospitable wood;Or try, like swine of old, the flood.
Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice!Your voice lift up, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness on each tongue,The mighty praise of Bute be sung.
The praise of Mansfield, and of North,Let next your hymns of joy set forth,Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage,Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage.
Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on.Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won!Your Gage has won Virginia's shore,And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more.
Hail, Middlesex!oh happy county!Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty,Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear,Thy wives and widows drop no tear.
Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feelThe force of unrelenting steel;What brute would give the ox a strokeWho bends his neck to meet the yoke?
To Murray bend the humble knee;He shall protect you under me;His generous pen shall not be mute,But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute.
By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught,By all your country Scotchmen thought;Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me,And be as blest as slaves can be.
The Virginia Gazette, 1774.
The colonies rallied nobly to Boston's support; provisions of all sorts were sent over-land to the devoted city; the 1st of June, the day on which the Port Bill went into effect, was observed as a day of fasting and prayer throughout the country, and it became a point of honor with all good patriots to refrain from indulgence in "the blasted herb."
The colonies rallied nobly to Boston's support; provisions of all sorts were sent over-land to the devoted city; the 1st of June, the day on which the Port Bill went into effect, was observed as a day of fasting and prayer throughout the country, and it became a point of honor with all good patriots to refrain from indulgence in "the blasted herb."
THE BLASTED HERB
[1774]
Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind,The rising danger flee,If you would lasting freedom find,Now then abandon tea.Scorn to be bound with golden chains,Though they allure the sight;Bid them defiance, if they claimOur freedom and birthright.Shall we our freedom give away,And all our comfort place,In drinking of outlandish tea,Only to please our taste?Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise,And seek our country's good;Nor ever let a thought ariseThat tea should be our food.Since we so great a plenty have,Of all that's for our health,Shall we that blasted herb receive,Impoverishing our wealth?When we survey the breathless corpse,With putrid matter filled,For crawling worms a sweet resort,By us reputed ill.Noxious effluvia sending outFrom its pernicious store,Not only from the foaming mouth,But every lifeless pore.To view the same enrolled in tea,Besmeared with such perfumes,And then the herb sent o'er the sea,To us it tainted comes—Some of it tinctured with a filthOf carcasses embalmed;Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt!Sure me it cannot charm.Adieu! away, oh tea! begone!Salute our taste no more;Though thou art coveted by some,Who're destined to be poor.Mesech Weare.Fowle'sGazette, July 22, 1774.
Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind,The rising danger flee,If you would lasting freedom find,Now then abandon tea.Scorn to be bound with golden chains,Though they allure the sight;Bid them defiance, if they claimOur freedom and birthright.Shall we our freedom give away,And all our comfort place,In drinking of outlandish tea,Only to please our taste?Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise,And seek our country's good;Nor ever let a thought ariseThat tea should be our food.Since we so great a plenty have,Of all that's for our health,Shall we that blasted herb receive,Impoverishing our wealth?When we survey the breathless corpse,With putrid matter filled,For crawling worms a sweet resort,By us reputed ill.Noxious effluvia sending outFrom its pernicious store,Not only from the foaming mouth,But every lifeless pore.To view the same enrolled in tea,Besmeared with such perfumes,And then the herb sent o'er the sea,To us it tainted comes—Some of it tinctured with a filthOf carcasses embalmed;Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt!Sure me it cannot charm.Adieu! away, oh tea! begone!Salute our taste no more;Though thou art coveted by some,Who're destined to be poor.Mesech Weare.Fowle'sGazette, July 22, 1774.
Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind,The rising danger flee,If you would lasting freedom find,Now then abandon tea.
Scorn to be bound with golden chains,Though they allure the sight;Bid them defiance, if they claimOur freedom and birthright.
Shall we our freedom give away,And all our comfort place,In drinking of outlandish tea,Only to please our taste?
Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise,And seek our country's good;Nor ever let a thought ariseThat tea should be our food.
Since we so great a plenty have,Of all that's for our health,Shall we that blasted herb receive,Impoverishing our wealth?
When we survey the breathless corpse,With putrid matter filled,For crawling worms a sweet resort,By us reputed ill.
Noxious effluvia sending outFrom its pernicious store,Not only from the foaming mouth,But every lifeless pore.
To view the same enrolled in tea,Besmeared with such perfumes,And then the herb sent o'er the sea,To us it tainted comes—
Some of it tinctured with a filthOf carcasses embalmed;Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt!Sure me it cannot charm.
Adieu! away, oh tea! begone!Salute our taste no more;Though thou art coveted by some,Who're destined to be poor.
Mesech Weare.
Fowle'sGazette, July 22, 1774.
EPIGRAM
ON THE POOR OF BOSTON BEING EMPLOYED IN PAVING THE STREETS, 1774