It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,The Yankees did surprise us,With their strong works they had thrown upTo burn the town and drive us.But soon we had an order come,An order to defeat them;Like rebels stout, they stood it out,And thought we ne'er could beat them.About the hour of twelve that day,An order came for marching,With three good flints and sixty rounds,Each man hoped to discharge them.We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,Where boats were ready waiting;With expedition we embark'd,Our ships kept cannonading.And when our boats all fillèd wereWith officers and soldiers,With as good troops as England had,To oppose who dare controul us?And when our boats all fillèd were,We row'd in line of battle,Where showers of ball like hail did fly,Our cannon loud did rattle.There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,Our twenty-fours they played;And the three frigates in the stream,That very well behaved.The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,All at the time of landing,With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,No Yankee e'er could stand them.And when we landed on the shore,We draw'd up all together;The Yankees they all mann'd their works,And thought we'd ne'er come thither.But soon they did perceive brave Howe,Brave Howe, our bold commander;With grenadiers, and infantry,We made them to surrender.Brave William Howe, on our right wing,Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;You soon will see the rebels flee,With great amaze and wonder."Now some lay bleeding on the ground,And some fell fast a-runningO'er hills and dales, and mountains high,Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."They 'gan to play on our left wing,Where Pigot, he commanded;But we returned it back again,With courage most undaunted.To our grape-shot and musket-balls,To which they were but strangers,They thought to come with sword in hand,But soon they found their danger.And when their works we got into,And put them to the flight, sirs,Some of them did hide themselves,And others died of fright, sirs.And when their works we got into,Without great fear or danger,The works they'd made were firm and strong,The Yankees are great strangers.But as for our artillery,They all behavèd dinty;For while our ammunition held,We gave it to them plenty.But our conductor, he got brokeFor his misconduct sure, sir;The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,Were made for twenty-fours, sir.There's some in Boston pleased to say,As we the field were taking,We went to kill their countrymen,While they their hay were making.For such stout whigs I never saw,To hang them all I'd rather;For making hay with musket-balls,And buckshot mixt together.Brave Howe is so considerate,As to guard against all dangers:He allows us half a pint a day—To rum we are no strangers.Long may he live by land and sea,For he's belov'd by many;The name of Howe the Yankees dread,We see it very plainly.And now my song is at an end:And to conclude my ditty,It is the poor and ignorant,And only them, I pity.But as for their king, John Hancock,And Adams, if they're taken,Their heads for signs shall hang up high,Upon that hill call'd Beacon.
It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,The Yankees did surprise us,With their strong works they had thrown upTo burn the town and drive us.But soon we had an order come,An order to defeat them;Like rebels stout, they stood it out,And thought we ne'er could beat them.About the hour of twelve that day,An order came for marching,With three good flints and sixty rounds,Each man hoped to discharge them.We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,Where boats were ready waiting;With expedition we embark'd,Our ships kept cannonading.And when our boats all fillèd wereWith officers and soldiers,With as good troops as England had,To oppose who dare controul us?And when our boats all fillèd were,We row'd in line of battle,Where showers of ball like hail did fly,Our cannon loud did rattle.There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,Our twenty-fours they played;And the three frigates in the stream,That very well behaved.The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,All at the time of landing,With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,No Yankee e'er could stand them.And when we landed on the shore,We draw'd up all together;The Yankees they all mann'd their works,And thought we'd ne'er come thither.But soon they did perceive brave Howe,Brave Howe, our bold commander;With grenadiers, and infantry,We made them to surrender.Brave William Howe, on our right wing,Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;You soon will see the rebels flee,With great amaze and wonder."Now some lay bleeding on the ground,And some fell fast a-runningO'er hills and dales, and mountains high,Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."They 'gan to play on our left wing,Where Pigot, he commanded;But we returned it back again,With courage most undaunted.To our grape-shot and musket-balls,To which they were but strangers,They thought to come with sword in hand,But soon they found their danger.And when their works we got into,And put them to the flight, sirs,Some of them did hide themselves,And others died of fright, sirs.And when their works we got into,Without great fear or danger,The works they'd made were firm and strong,The Yankees are great strangers.But as for our artillery,They all behavèd dinty;For while our ammunition held,We gave it to them plenty.But our conductor, he got brokeFor his misconduct sure, sir;The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,Were made for twenty-fours, sir.There's some in Boston pleased to say,As we the field were taking,We went to kill their countrymen,While they their hay were making.For such stout whigs I never saw,To hang them all I'd rather;For making hay with musket-balls,And buckshot mixt together.Brave Howe is so considerate,As to guard against all dangers:He allows us half a pint a day—To rum we are no strangers.Long may he live by land and sea,For he's belov'd by many;The name of Howe the Yankees dread,We see it very plainly.And now my song is at an end:And to conclude my ditty,It is the poor and ignorant,And only them, I pity.But as for their king, John Hancock,And Adams, if they're taken,Their heads for signs shall hang up high,Upon that hill call'd Beacon.
It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,The Yankees did surprise us,With their strong works they had thrown upTo burn the town and drive us.
But soon we had an order come,An order to defeat them;Like rebels stout, they stood it out,And thought we ne'er could beat them.
About the hour of twelve that day,An order came for marching,With three good flints and sixty rounds,Each man hoped to discharge them.
We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,Where boats were ready waiting;With expedition we embark'd,Our ships kept cannonading.
And when our boats all fillèd wereWith officers and soldiers,With as good troops as England had,To oppose who dare controul us?
And when our boats all fillèd were,We row'd in line of battle,Where showers of ball like hail did fly,Our cannon loud did rattle.
There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,Our twenty-fours they played;And the three frigates in the stream,That very well behaved.
The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,All at the time of landing,With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,No Yankee e'er could stand them.
And when we landed on the shore,We draw'd up all together;The Yankees they all mann'd their works,And thought we'd ne'er come thither.
But soon they did perceive brave Howe,Brave Howe, our bold commander;With grenadiers, and infantry,We made them to surrender.
Brave William Howe, on our right wing,Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;You soon will see the rebels flee,With great amaze and wonder."
Now some lay bleeding on the ground,And some fell fast a-runningO'er hills and dales, and mountains high,Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."
They 'gan to play on our left wing,Where Pigot, he commanded;But we returned it back again,With courage most undaunted.
To our grape-shot and musket-balls,To which they were but strangers,They thought to come with sword in hand,But soon they found their danger.
And when their works we got into,And put them to the flight, sirs,Some of them did hide themselves,And others died of fright, sirs.
And when their works we got into,Without great fear or danger,The works they'd made were firm and strong,The Yankees are great strangers.
But as for our artillery,They all behavèd dinty;For while our ammunition held,We gave it to them plenty.
But our conductor, he got brokeFor his misconduct sure, sir;The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,Were made for twenty-fours, sir.
There's some in Boston pleased to say,As we the field were taking,We went to kill their countrymen,While they their hay were making.
For such stout whigs I never saw,To hang them all I'd rather;For making hay with musket-balls,And buckshot mixt together.
Brave Howe is so considerate,As to guard against all dangers:He allows us half a pint a day—To rum we are no strangers.
Long may he live by land and sea,For he's belov'd by many;The name of Howe the Yankees dread,We see it very plainly.
And now my song is at an end:And to conclude my ditty,It is the poor and ignorant,And only them, I pity.
But as for their king, John Hancock,And Adams, if they're taken,Their heads for signs shall hang up high,Upon that hill call'd Beacon.
On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American forces.
On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American forces.
THE NEW-COME CHIEF
From "Under the Old Elm"
[July 3, 1775]
Beneath our consecrated elmA century ago he stood,Famed vaguely for that old fight in the woodWhose red surge sought, but could not overwhelmThe life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:—From colleges, where now the gownTo arms had yielded, from the town,Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to seeThe new-come chief and wonder which was he.No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,Long trained in murder-brooding forests loneTo bridle others' clamors and his own,Firmly erect, he towered above them all,The incarnate discipline that was to freeWith iron curb that armed democracy.A motley rout was that which came to stare,In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,Of every shape that was not uniform,Dotted with regimentals here and there;An army all of captains, used to prayAnd stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;Deacons were there, selectmen, men of noteIn half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,But largely liberal to its private moods;Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,Nor much fastidious as to how and when:Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to createA thought-staid army or a lasting state:Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;But owned, as all men own, the steady handUpon the bridle, patient to command,Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraintAnd purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.*****Never to see a nation bornHath been given to mortal man,Unless to those who, on that summer morn,Gazed silent when the great VirginianUnsheathed the sword whose fatal flashShot union through the incoherent clashOf our loose atoms, crystallizing themAround a single will's unpliant stem,And making purpose of emotion rash,Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,The common faith that made us what we are.That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,Till then provincial, to Americans,And made a unity of wildering plans;Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the dateWhen this New World awoke to man's estate,Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hateCould from its poise move that deliberate mind,Weighing between too early and too lateThose pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:His was the impartial vision of the greatWho see not as they wish, but as they find.He saw the dangers of defeat, nor lessThe incomputable perils of success;The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;On either hand a sullen rear of woes,Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely choseThe seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.James Russell Lowell.
Beneath our consecrated elmA century ago he stood,Famed vaguely for that old fight in the woodWhose red surge sought, but could not overwhelmThe life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:—From colleges, where now the gownTo arms had yielded, from the town,Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to seeThe new-come chief and wonder which was he.No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,Long trained in murder-brooding forests loneTo bridle others' clamors and his own,Firmly erect, he towered above them all,The incarnate discipline that was to freeWith iron curb that armed democracy.A motley rout was that which came to stare,In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,Of every shape that was not uniform,Dotted with regimentals here and there;An army all of captains, used to prayAnd stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;Deacons were there, selectmen, men of noteIn half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,But largely liberal to its private moods;Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,Nor much fastidious as to how and when:Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to createA thought-staid army or a lasting state:Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;But owned, as all men own, the steady handUpon the bridle, patient to command,Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraintAnd purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.*****Never to see a nation bornHath been given to mortal man,Unless to those who, on that summer morn,Gazed silent when the great VirginianUnsheathed the sword whose fatal flashShot union through the incoherent clashOf our loose atoms, crystallizing themAround a single will's unpliant stem,And making purpose of emotion rash,Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,The common faith that made us what we are.That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,Till then provincial, to Americans,And made a unity of wildering plans;Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the dateWhen this New World awoke to man's estate,Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hateCould from its poise move that deliberate mind,Weighing between too early and too lateThose pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:His was the impartial vision of the greatWho see not as they wish, but as they find.He saw the dangers of defeat, nor lessThe incomputable perils of success;The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;On either hand a sullen rear of woes,Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely choseThe seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.James Russell Lowell.
Beneath our consecrated elmA century ago he stood,Famed vaguely for that old fight in the woodWhose red surge sought, but could not overwhelmThe life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:—From colleges, where now the gownTo arms had yielded, from the town,Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to seeThe new-come chief and wonder which was he.No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,Long trained in murder-brooding forests loneTo bridle others' clamors and his own,Firmly erect, he towered above them all,The incarnate discipline that was to freeWith iron curb that armed democracy.
A motley rout was that which came to stare,In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,Of every shape that was not uniform,Dotted with regimentals here and there;An army all of captains, used to prayAnd stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;Deacons were there, selectmen, men of noteIn half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,But largely liberal to its private moods;Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,Nor much fastidious as to how and when:Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to createA thought-staid army or a lasting state:Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;But owned, as all men own, the steady handUpon the bridle, patient to command,Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraintAnd purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.
*****
Never to see a nation bornHath been given to mortal man,Unless to those who, on that summer morn,Gazed silent when the great VirginianUnsheathed the sword whose fatal flashShot union through the incoherent clashOf our loose atoms, crystallizing themAround a single will's unpliant stem,And making purpose of emotion rash,Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,The common faith that made us what we are.
That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,Till then provincial, to Americans,And made a unity of wildering plans;Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the dateWhen this New World awoke to man's estate,Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hateCould from its poise move that deliberate mind,Weighing between too early and too lateThose pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:His was the impartial vision of the greatWho see not as they wish, but as they find.He saw the dangers of defeat, nor lessThe incomputable perils of success;The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;On either hand a sullen rear of woes,Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely choseThe seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.
James Russell Lowell.
Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head, but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only one which has survived.
Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head, but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only one which has survived.
THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE
[July 3, 1775]
When Congress sent great WashingtonAll clothed in power and breeches,To meet old Britain's warlike sonsAnd make some rebel speeches;'Twas then he took his gloomy wayAstride his dapple donkeys,And travelled well, both night and day,Until he reach'd the Yankees.Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,From Lily he dismounted.His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wigWhile he the specie counted.All prinkèd up infullbag-wig;The shaking notwithstanding,In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!He reach'd the Yankee landing.The women ran, the darkeys too;And all the bells, they tollèd;For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,We're sure to be—consolèd.Old mother Hancock with a panAll crowded full of butter,Unto the lovely Georgius ran,And added to the splutter.Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,And John is wondrous happy.He sent this present to you, dear,As you're the 'country's papa.'"—"You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not butt your speeches.You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not grease your breeches."Full many a child went into camp,All dressed in homespun kersey,To see the greatest rebel scampThat ever cross'd o'er Jersey.The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!Too awkward was their figure.'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,And here and there a nigger.Upon a stump he placed (himself),Great Washington did he,And through the nose oflawyer Close,Proclaimed great Liberty.The patriot brave, the patriot fair,From fervor had grown thinner,So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,And took a patriot dinner.
When Congress sent great WashingtonAll clothed in power and breeches,To meet old Britain's warlike sonsAnd make some rebel speeches;'Twas then he took his gloomy wayAstride his dapple donkeys,And travelled well, both night and day,Until he reach'd the Yankees.Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,From Lily he dismounted.His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wigWhile he the specie counted.All prinkèd up infullbag-wig;The shaking notwithstanding,In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!He reach'd the Yankee landing.The women ran, the darkeys too;And all the bells, they tollèd;For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,We're sure to be—consolèd.Old mother Hancock with a panAll crowded full of butter,Unto the lovely Georgius ran,And added to the splutter.Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,And John is wondrous happy.He sent this present to you, dear,As you're the 'country's papa.'"—"You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not butt your speeches.You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not grease your breeches."Full many a child went into camp,All dressed in homespun kersey,To see the greatest rebel scampThat ever cross'd o'er Jersey.The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!Too awkward was their figure.'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,And here and there a nigger.Upon a stump he placed (himself),Great Washington did he,And through the nose oflawyer Close,Proclaimed great Liberty.The patriot brave, the patriot fair,From fervor had grown thinner,So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,And took a patriot dinner.
When Congress sent great WashingtonAll clothed in power and breeches,To meet old Britain's warlike sonsAnd make some rebel speeches;
'Twas then he took his gloomy wayAstride his dapple donkeys,And travelled well, both night and day,Until he reach'd the Yankees.
Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,From Lily he dismounted.His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wigWhile he the specie counted.
All prinkèd up infullbag-wig;The shaking notwithstanding,In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!He reach'd the Yankee landing.
The women ran, the darkeys too;And all the bells, they tollèd;For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,We're sure to be—consolèd.
Old mother Hancock with a panAll crowded full of butter,Unto the lovely Georgius ran,And added to the splutter.
Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,And John is wondrous happy.He sent this present to you, dear,As you're the 'country's papa.'"—
"You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not butt your speeches.You'll butter bread and bread butter,But do not grease your breeches."
Full many a child went into camp,All dressed in homespun kersey,To see the greatest rebel scampThat ever cross'd o'er Jersey.
The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!Too awkward was their figure.'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,And here and there a nigger.
Upon a stump he placed (himself),Great Washington did he,And through the nose oflawyer Close,Proclaimed great Liberty.
The patriot brave, the patriot fair,From fervor had grown thinner,So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,And took a patriot dinner.
The Colonials, on the other hand, among whom he seems to have inspired almost instant respect and affection, made him the subject of many songs, the most popular of which was Sewall's "War and Washington," which was sung by soldiers and civilians during the whole Revolution.
The Colonials, on the other hand, among whom he seems to have inspired almost instant respect and affection, made him the subject of many songs, the most popular of which was Sewall's "War and Washington," which was sung by soldiers and civilians during the whole Revolution.
WAR AND WASHINGTON
Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.Like Esop's greedy curyou'll gain a shadow for your bone,Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swordsTo rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,America or Albion, a George or Washington!Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defyTurk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,While every warlike nation would court alliance here;And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his thronePay homage to America and glorious Washington!Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.Like Esop's greedy curyou'll gain a shadow for your bone,Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swordsTo rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,America or Albion, a George or Washington!Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defyTurk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,While every warlike nation would court alliance here;And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his thronePay homage to America and glorious Washington!Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.
Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!
Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.Like Esop's greedy curyou'll gain a shadow for your bone,Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.
Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!
Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!
Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!
Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swordsTo rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.
For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,America or Albion, a George or Washington!
Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!
Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defyTurk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!
Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!
Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,While every warlike nation would court alliance here;And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his thronePay homage to America and glorious Washington!
Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol, which had refused to furnish him with supplies,—an incident which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of Revolutionary ballads.
While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol, which had refused to furnish him with supplies,—an incident which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of Revolutionary ballads.
THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL
[October 7, 1775]
In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,Our Bristol town was much surprisedBy a pack of thievish villains,That will not work to earn their livings.October 'twas the seventh day,As I have heard the people say,Wallace, his name be ever curst,Came on our harbor just at dusk.And there his ship did safely moor,And quickly sent his barge on shore,With orders that should not be broke,Or they might expect a smoke.Demanding that the magistratesShould quickly come on board his ship,And let him have some sheep and cattle,Or they might expect a battle.At eight o'clock, by signal given,Our peaceful atmosphere was rivenBy British balls, both grape and round,As plenty afterwards were found.But oh! to hear the doleful criesOf people running for their lives!Women, with children in their arms,Running away to the farms!With all their firing and their skillThey did not any person kill;Neither was any person hurtBut the Reverend Parson Burt.And he was not killed by a ball,As judged by jurors one and all;But being in a sickly state,He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.Another truth to you I'll tell,That you may see they levelled well;For aiming for to kill the people,They fired their shot into a steeple.They fired low, they fired high,The women scream, the children cry;And all their firing and their racketShot off the topmast of a packet.
In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,Our Bristol town was much surprisedBy a pack of thievish villains,That will not work to earn their livings.October 'twas the seventh day,As I have heard the people say,Wallace, his name be ever curst,Came on our harbor just at dusk.And there his ship did safely moor,And quickly sent his barge on shore,With orders that should not be broke,Or they might expect a smoke.Demanding that the magistratesShould quickly come on board his ship,And let him have some sheep and cattle,Or they might expect a battle.At eight o'clock, by signal given,Our peaceful atmosphere was rivenBy British balls, both grape and round,As plenty afterwards were found.But oh! to hear the doleful criesOf people running for their lives!Women, with children in their arms,Running away to the farms!With all their firing and their skillThey did not any person kill;Neither was any person hurtBut the Reverend Parson Burt.And he was not killed by a ball,As judged by jurors one and all;But being in a sickly state,He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.Another truth to you I'll tell,That you may see they levelled well;For aiming for to kill the people,They fired their shot into a steeple.They fired low, they fired high,The women scream, the children cry;And all their firing and their racketShot off the topmast of a packet.
In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,Our Bristol town was much surprisedBy a pack of thievish villains,That will not work to earn their livings.
October 'twas the seventh day,As I have heard the people say,Wallace, his name be ever curst,Came on our harbor just at dusk.
And there his ship did safely moor,And quickly sent his barge on shore,With orders that should not be broke,Or they might expect a smoke.
Demanding that the magistratesShould quickly come on board his ship,And let him have some sheep and cattle,Or they might expect a battle.
At eight o'clock, by signal given,Our peaceful atmosphere was rivenBy British balls, both grape and round,As plenty afterwards were found.
But oh! to hear the doleful criesOf people running for their lives!Women, with children in their arms,Running away to the farms!
With all their firing and their skillThey did not any person kill;Neither was any person hurtBut the Reverend Parson Burt.
And he was not killed by a ball,As judged by jurors one and all;But being in a sickly state,He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.
Another truth to you I'll tell,That you may see they levelled well;For aiming for to kill the people,They fired their shot into a steeple.
They fired low, they fired high,The women scream, the children cry;And all their firing and their racketShot off the topmast of a packet.
From the moment, almost, of the fight at Lexington, the conquest of Canada had been dreamed of, and in September, 1775, a force of two thousand men, under General Richard Montgomery, started for Quebec. He was joined by another force under Benedict Arnold, and an attempt was made to carry the citadel by storm. But Montgomery fell as he led the way over the walls, Arnold was wounded, and the Americans were beaten back.
From the moment, almost, of the fight at Lexington, the conquest of Canada had been dreamed of, and in September, 1775, a force of two thousand men, under General Richard Montgomery, started for Quebec. He was joined by another force under Benedict Arnold, and an attempt was made to carry the citadel by storm. But Montgomery fell as he led the way over the walls, Arnold was wounded, and the Americans were beaten back.
MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC
[December 31, 1775]
Round Quebec's embattled wallsMoodily the patriots lay;Dread disease within its thrallsDrew them closer day by day;Till from suffering man to man,Mutinous, a murmur ran.Footsore, they had wandered far,They had fasted, they had bled;They had slept beneath the starWith no pillow for the head;Was it but to freeze to stoneIn this cruel icy zone?Yet their leader held his heart,Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;Quelled with unobtrusive artThose that muttered; unafraidWaited, watchful, for the hourWhen his golden chance should flower.'Twas the death-tide of the year;Night had passed its murky noon;Through the bitter atmospherePierced nor ray of star nor moon;But upon the bleak earth beatBlinding arrows of the sleet.While the trumpets of the stormPealed the bastioned heights around,Did the dauntless heroes form,Did the low, sharp order sound."Be the watchwordLiberty!"Cried the brave Montgomery.Here, where he had won applause,When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,For a nobler, grander causeWould he strike the fearless blow,—Smite at Wrong upon the throne,At Injustice giant grown."Men, you will not fear to treadWhere your general dares to lead!On, my valiant boys!" he said,And his foot was first to speed;Swiftly up the beetling steep,Lion-hearted, did he leap.Flashed a sudden blinding glare;Roared a fearsome battle-peal;Rang the gloomy vasts of air;Seemed the earth to rock and reel;While adown that fiery breathRode the hurtling bolts of death.Woe for him, the valorous one,Now a silent clod of clay!Nevermore for him the sunWould make glad the paths of day;Yet 'twere better thus to dieThan to cringe to tyranny!—Better thus the life to yield,Striking for the right and God,Upon Freedom's gory field,Than to kiss Oppression's rod!Honor, then, for all time beTo the brave Montgomery!Clinton Scollard.
Round Quebec's embattled wallsMoodily the patriots lay;Dread disease within its thrallsDrew them closer day by day;Till from suffering man to man,Mutinous, a murmur ran.Footsore, they had wandered far,They had fasted, they had bled;They had slept beneath the starWith no pillow for the head;Was it but to freeze to stoneIn this cruel icy zone?Yet their leader held his heart,Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;Quelled with unobtrusive artThose that muttered; unafraidWaited, watchful, for the hourWhen his golden chance should flower.'Twas the death-tide of the year;Night had passed its murky noon;Through the bitter atmospherePierced nor ray of star nor moon;But upon the bleak earth beatBlinding arrows of the sleet.While the trumpets of the stormPealed the bastioned heights around,Did the dauntless heroes form,Did the low, sharp order sound."Be the watchwordLiberty!"Cried the brave Montgomery.Here, where he had won applause,When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,For a nobler, grander causeWould he strike the fearless blow,—Smite at Wrong upon the throne,At Injustice giant grown."Men, you will not fear to treadWhere your general dares to lead!On, my valiant boys!" he said,And his foot was first to speed;Swiftly up the beetling steep,Lion-hearted, did he leap.Flashed a sudden blinding glare;Roared a fearsome battle-peal;Rang the gloomy vasts of air;Seemed the earth to rock and reel;While adown that fiery breathRode the hurtling bolts of death.Woe for him, the valorous one,Now a silent clod of clay!Nevermore for him the sunWould make glad the paths of day;Yet 'twere better thus to dieThan to cringe to tyranny!—Better thus the life to yield,Striking for the right and God,Upon Freedom's gory field,Than to kiss Oppression's rod!Honor, then, for all time beTo the brave Montgomery!Clinton Scollard.
Round Quebec's embattled wallsMoodily the patriots lay;Dread disease within its thrallsDrew them closer day by day;Till from suffering man to man,Mutinous, a murmur ran.
Footsore, they had wandered far,They had fasted, they had bled;They had slept beneath the starWith no pillow for the head;Was it but to freeze to stoneIn this cruel icy zone?
Yet their leader held his heart,Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;Quelled with unobtrusive artThose that muttered; unafraidWaited, watchful, for the hourWhen his golden chance should flower.
'Twas the death-tide of the year;Night had passed its murky noon;Through the bitter atmospherePierced nor ray of star nor moon;But upon the bleak earth beatBlinding arrows of the sleet.
While the trumpets of the stormPealed the bastioned heights around,Did the dauntless heroes form,Did the low, sharp order sound."Be the watchwordLiberty!"Cried the brave Montgomery.
Here, where he had won applause,When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,For a nobler, grander causeWould he strike the fearless blow,—Smite at Wrong upon the throne,At Injustice giant grown.
"Men, you will not fear to treadWhere your general dares to lead!On, my valiant boys!" he said,And his foot was first to speed;Swiftly up the beetling steep,Lion-hearted, did he leap.
Flashed a sudden blinding glare;Roared a fearsome battle-peal;Rang the gloomy vasts of air;Seemed the earth to rock and reel;While adown that fiery breathRode the hurtling bolts of death.
Woe for him, the valorous one,Now a silent clod of clay!Nevermore for him the sunWould make glad the paths of day;Yet 'twere better thus to dieThan to cringe to tyranny!—
Better thus the life to yield,Striking for the right and God,Upon Freedom's gory field,Than to kiss Oppression's rod!Honor, then, for all time beTo the brave Montgomery!
Clinton Scollard.
Though the Americans had lost Canada, they were soon to gain Boston. During the winter of 1775-76, a great number of captured cannon had been dragged on sledges from Ticonderoga, the drilling of the army had gone steadily on, and at last Washington felt that he was able to assume the offensive, and on the night of March 4, 1776, he seized and fortified Dorchester Heights.
Though the Americans had lost Canada, they were soon to gain Boston. During the winter of 1775-76, a great number of captured cannon had been dragged on sledges from Ticonderoga, the drilling of the army had gone steadily on, and at last Washington felt that he was able to assume the offensive, and on the night of March 4, 1776, he seized and fortified Dorchester Heights.
A SONG
[1776]
Smile, Massachusetts, smile,Thy virtue still outbravesThe frowns of Britain's isle,The rage of home-born slaves.Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,When purchased by their liberties.Thy genius, once the prideOf Britain's ancient isle,Brought o'er the raging tideBy our forefathers' toil;In spite of North's despotic power,Shines glorious on this western shore.In Hancock's generous mindAwakes the noble strife,Which so conspicuous shinedIn gallant Sydney's life;While in its cause the hero bled,Immortal honors crown'd his head.Let zeal your breasts inspire;Let wisdom guide your plans;'Tis not your cause entire,On doubtful conflict hangs;The fate of this vast continent,And unborn millions share th' event.To close the gloomy scenesOf this alarming day,A happy union reignsThrough wide America.While awful Wisdom hourly waitsTo adorn the councils of her states.Brave Washington arrives,Arrayed in warlike fame,While in his soul revivesGreat Marlboro's martial flame,To lead your conquering armies onTo lasting glory and renown.To aid the glorious cause,Experienc'd Lee has come,Renown'd in foreign wars,A patriot at home.While valiant Putnam's warlike deedsAmongst the foe a terror spreads.Let Britons proudly boast,"That their two thousand bravesCan drive our numerous host,And make us all their slaves;"While twice six thousand quake with fear,Nor dare without their lines appear.Kind Heaven has deign'd to ownOur bold resistance just,Since murderous Gage beganThe bloody carnage first.Near ten to one has been their cost,For each American we've lost.Stand firm in your defence,Like Sons of Freedom fight,Your haughty foes convinceThat you'll maintain your right.Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,And glory will your valor crown.The Connecticut Gazette, 1776.
Smile, Massachusetts, smile,Thy virtue still outbravesThe frowns of Britain's isle,The rage of home-born slaves.Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,When purchased by their liberties.Thy genius, once the prideOf Britain's ancient isle,Brought o'er the raging tideBy our forefathers' toil;In spite of North's despotic power,Shines glorious on this western shore.In Hancock's generous mindAwakes the noble strife,Which so conspicuous shinedIn gallant Sydney's life;While in its cause the hero bled,Immortal honors crown'd his head.Let zeal your breasts inspire;Let wisdom guide your plans;'Tis not your cause entire,On doubtful conflict hangs;The fate of this vast continent,And unborn millions share th' event.To close the gloomy scenesOf this alarming day,A happy union reignsThrough wide America.While awful Wisdom hourly waitsTo adorn the councils of her states.Brave Washington arrives,Arrayed in warlike fame,While in his soul revivesGreat Marlboro's martial flame,To lead your conquering armies onTo lasting glory and renown.To aid the glorious cause,Experienc'd Lee has come,Renown'd in foreign wars,A patriot at home.While valiant Putnam's warlike deedsAmongst the foe a terror spreads.Let Britons proudly boast,"That their two thousand bravesCan drive our numerous host,And make us all their slaves;"While twice six thousand quake with fear,Nor dare without their lines appear.Kind Heaven has deign'd to ownOur bold resistance just,Since murderous Gage beganThe bloody carnage first.Near ten to one has been their cost,For each American we've lost.Stand firm in your defence,Like Sons of Freedom fight,Your haughty foes convinceThat you'll maintain your right.Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,And glory will your valor crown.The Connecticut Gazette, 1776.
Smile, Massachusetts, smile,Thy virtue still outbravesThe frowns of Britain's isle,The rage of home-born slaves.Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,When purchased by their liberties.
Thy genius, once the prideOf Britain's ancient isle,Brought o'er the raging tideBy our forefathers' toil;In spite of North's despotic power,Shines glorious on this western shore.
In Hancock's generous mindAwakes the noble strife,Which so conspicuous shinedIn gallant Sydney's life;While in its cause the hero bled,Immortal honors crown'd his head.
Let zeal your breasts inspire;Let wisdom guide your plans;'Tis not your cause entire,On doubtful conflict hangs;The fate of this vast continent,And unborn millions share th' event.
To close the gloomy scenesOf this alarming day,A happy union reignsThrough wide America.While awful Wisdom hourly waitsTo adorn the councils of her states.
Brave Washington arrives,Arrayed in warlike fame,While in his soul revivesGreat Marlboro's martial flame,To lead your conquering armies onTo lasting glory and renown.
To aid the glorious cause,Experienc'd Lee has come,Renown'd in foreign wars,A patriot at home.While valiant Putnam's warlike deedsAmongst the foe a terror spreads.
Let Britons proudly boast,"That their two thousand bravesCan drive our numerous host,And make us all their slaves;"While twice six thousand quake with fear,Nor dare without their lines appear.
Kind Heaven has deign'd to ownOur bold resistance just,Since murderous Gage beganThe bloody carnage first.Near ten to one has been their cost,For each American we've lost.
Stand firm in your defence,Like Sons of Freedom fight,Your haughty foes convinceThat you'll maintain your right.Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,And glory will your valor crown.
The Connecticut Gazette, 1776.
Howe realized that Boston was untenable unless the Americans could be dislodged; but with the memory of Bunker Hill before him, he had no heart for the enterprise. While he hesitated, the American works were made well-nigh impregnable, and Howe decided to abandon the town. On March 17, 1776, the British troops, eight thousand in number, sailed away for Halifax. Washington at once took possession of the city.
Howe realized that Boston was untenable unless the Americans could be dislodged; but with the memory of Bunker Hill before him, he had no heart for the enterprise. While he hesitated, the American works were made well-nigh impregnable, and Howe decided to abandon the town. On March 17, 1776, the British troops, eight thousand in number, sailed away for Halifax. Washington at once took possession of the city.
A POEM CONTAINING SOME REMARKS ON THE PRESENT WAR
[March 17, 1776]
Britons grown big with prideAnd wanton ease,And tyranny beside,They sought to pleaseTheir craving appetite,They strove with all their might,They vow'd to rise and fight,To make us bow.The plan they laid was deepEven like hell;With sympathy I weep,While here I tellOf that base murderous brood,Void of the fear of God,Who came to spill our bloodIn our own land.They bid their armies sailThough billows roar,And take the first fair galeFor Boston's shore;They cross'd the Atlantic seaA long and watery way,Poor Boston fell a preyTo tyranny.*****Gage was both base and mean,He dare not fight,The men he sent were seenLike owls in night:It was in LexingtonWhere patriots' blood did runBefore the rising sunIn crimson gore.Here sons of freedom fellRather than flee,Unto those brutes of hellThey fell a prey;But they shall live again,Their names shall rise and reignAmong the noble slainIn all our land.But oh! this cruel foeWent on in haste,To Concord they did go,And there did wasteSome stores in their rage,To gratify old Gage,His name in every pageShall be defam'd.Their practice thus so base,And murder too,Rouz'd up the patriot race,Who did pursue,And put this foe to flight,They could not bear the light,Some rued the very nightThey left their den.And now this crueltyWas spread abroad,The sons of libertyThis act abhorr'd,Their noble blood did boil,Forgetting all the toil,In troubles they could smile,And went in haste.Our army willinglyDid then engage,To stop the crueltyOf tyrants' rage!They did not fear our foe,But ready were to go,And let the tyrants knowWhose sons they were.But when old Gage did seeAll us withstand,And strive for libertyThrough all our land,He strove with all his might,For rage was his delight,With fire he did fight,A monster he.On Charlestown he display'dHis fire abroad;He it in ashes laid,An act abhorr'dBy sons of liberty,Who saw the flames on highPiercing their native sky,And now lies waste.To Bunker-Hill they cameMost rapidly,And many there were slain,And there did die.They call'd it bloody hill,Altho' they gain'd their willIn triumph they were still,'Cause of their slain.Here sons of freedom foughtRight manfully,A wonder here was wroughtThough some did die.HereWarrenbow'd to death,His last expiring breath,In language mild he saith,Fight on, brave boys.Oh! this did stain the prideOf British troops,They saw they were deny'dOf their vain hopesOf marching thro' our land,When twice a feeble band,Did fight and boldly standIn our defence.BraveWashingtondid comeTo our relief;He left his native home,Filled with grief,He did not covet gain,The cause he would maintainAnd die among the slainRather than flee.His bosom glow'd with loveFor liberty,His passions much did moveTo orphans' cry,He let proud tyrants know,How far their bounds should goAnd then his bombs did throwInto their den.This frighted them full soreWhen bombs were sent,When cannon loud did roarThey left each tent:Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,Went precipitately,Their shipping being nigh,They sailed off.And now Boston is freeFrom tyrants base,The sons of libertyPossess the place;They now in safety dwell.Free from those brutes of hell,Their raptur'd tongues do tellTheir joys great.
Britons grown big with prideAnd wanton ease,And tyranny beside,They sought to pleaseTheir craving appetite,They strove with all their might,They vow'd to rise and fight,To make us bow.The plan they laid was deepEven like hell;With sympathy I weep,While here I tellOf that base murderous brood,Void of the fear of God,Who came to spill our bloodIn our own land.They bid their armies sailThough billows roar,And take the first fair galeFor Boston's shore;They cross'd the Atlantic seaA long and watery way,Poor Boston fell a preyTo tyranny.*****Gage was both base and mean,He dare not fight,The men he sent were seenLike owls in night:It was in LexingtonWhere patriots' blood did runBefore the rising sunIn crimson gore.Here sons of freedom fellRather than flee,Unto those brutes of hellThey fell a prey;But they shall live again,Their names shall rise and reignAmong the noble slainIn all our land.But oh! this cruel foeWent on in haste,To Concord they did go,And there did wasteSome stores in their rage,To gratify old Gage,His name in every pageShall be defam'd.Their practice thus so base,And murder too,Rouz'd up the patriot race,Who did pursue,And put this foe to flight,They could not bear the light,Some rued the very nightThey left their den.And now this crueltyWas spread abroad,The sons of libertyThis act abhorr'd,Their noble blood did boil,Forgetting all the toil,In troubles they could smile,And went in haste.Our army willinglyDid then engage,To stop the crueltyOf tyrants' rage!They did not fear our foe,But ready were to go,And let the tyrants knowWhose sons they were.But when old Gage did seeAll us withstand,And strive for libertyThrough all our land,He strove with all his might,For rage was his delight,With fire he did fight,A monster he.On Charlestown he display'dHis fire abroad;He it in ashes laid,An act abhorr'dBy sons of liberty,Who saw the flames on highPiercing their native sky,And now lies waste.To Bunker-Hill they cameMost rapidly,And many there were slain,And there did die.They call'd it bloody hill,Altho' they gain'd their willIn triumph they were still,'Cause of their slain.Here sons of freedom foughtRight manfully,A wonder here was wroughtThough some did die.HereWarrenbow'd to death,His last expiring breath,In language mild he saith,Fight on, brave boys.Oh! this did stain the prideOf British troops,They saw they were deny'dOf their vain hopesOf marching thro' our land,When twice a feeble band,Did fight and boldly standIn our defence.BraveWashingtondid comeTo our relief;He left his native home,Filled with grief,He did not covet gain,The cause he would maintainAnd die among the slainRather than flee.His bosom glow'd with loveFor liberty,His passions much did moveTo orphans' cry,He let proud tyrants know,How far their bounds should goAnd then his bombs did throwInto their den.This frighted them full soreWhen bombs were sent,When cannon loud did roarThey left each tent:Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,Went precipitately,Their shipping being nigh,They sailed off.And now Boston is freeFrom tyrants base,The sons of libertyPossess the place;They now in safety dwell.Free from those brutes of hell,Their raptur'd tongues do tellTheir joys great.
Britons grown big with prideAnd wanton ease,And tyranny beside,They sought to pleaseTheir craving appetite,They strove with all their might,They vow'd to rise and fight,To make us bow.
The plan they laid was deepEven like hell;With sympathy I weep,While here I tellOf that base murderous brood,Void of the fear of God,Who came to spill our bloodIn our own land.
They bid their armies sailThough billows roar,And take the first fair galeFor Boston's shore;They cross'd the Atlantic seaA long and watery way,Poor Boston fell a preyTo tyranny.
*****
Gage was both base and mean,He dare not fight,The men he sent were seenLike owls in night:It was in LexingtonWhere patriots' blood did runBefore the rising sunIn crimson gore.
Here sons of freedom fellRather than flee,Unto those brutes of hellThey fell a prey;But they shall live again,Their names shall rise and reignAmong the noble slainIn all our land.
But oh! this cruel foeWent on in haste,To Concord they did go,And there did wasteSome stores in their rage,To gratify old Gage,His name in every pageShall be defam'd.
Their practice thus so base,And murder too,Rouz'd up the patriot race,Who did pursue,And put this foe to flight,They could not bear the light,Some rued the very nightThey left their den.
And now this crueltyWas spread abroad,The sons of libertyThis act abhorr'd,Their noble blood did boil,Forgetting all the toil,In troubles they could smile,And went in haste.
Our army willinglyDid then engage,To stop the crueltyOf tyrants' rage!They did not fear our foe,But ready were to go,And let the tyrants knowWhose sons they were.
But when old Gage did seeAll us withstand,And strive for libertyThrough all our land,He strove with all his might,For rage was his delight,With fire he did fight,A monster he.
On Charlestown he display'dHis fire abroad;He it in ashes laid,An act abhorr'dBy sons of liberty,Who saw the flames on highPiercing their native sky,And now lies waste.
To Bunker-Hill they cameMost rapidly,And many there were slain,And there did die.They call'd it bloody hill,Altho' they gain'd their willIn triumph they were still,'Cause of their slain.
Here sons of freedom foughtRight manfully,A wonder here was wroughtThough some did die.HereWarrenbow'd to death,His last expiring breath,In language mild he saith,Fight on, brave boys.
Oh! this did stain the prideOf British troops,They saw they were deny'dOf their vain hopesOf marching thro' our land,When twice a feeble band,Did fight and boldly standIn our defence.
BraveWashingtondid comeTo our relief;He left his native home,Filled with grief,He did not covet gain,The cause he would maintainAnd die among the slainRather than flee.
His bosom glow'd with loveFor liberty,His passions much did moveTo orphans' cry,He let proud tyrants know,How far their bounds should goAnd then his bombs did throwInto their den.
This frighted them full soreWhen bombs were sent,When cannon loud did roarThey left each tent:Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,Went precipitately,Their shipping being nigh,They sailed off.
And now Boston is freeFrom tyrants base,The sons of libertyPossess the place;They now in safety dwell.Free from those brutes of hell,Their raptur'd tongues do tellTheir joys great.
A portion of the British fleet remained in Boston harbor, and apprehensions began to be felt that an effort would be made to recapture the town. It was at this juncture that Captain James Mugford, of the schooner Franklin, captured the British ship Hope, bound for Boston with supplies and fifteen hundred barrels of powder. Two days later, on May 19, the Franklin ran aground at Point Shirley, at the mouth of the harbor, and was at once attacked by boats from the British vessels. A sharp engagement ensued, in which Mugford was killed. His last words are said to have been those used by Lawrence nearly forty years later: "Don't give up the ship! You will beat them off!" And they did.
A portion of the British fleet remained in Boston harbor, and apprehensions began to be felt that an effort would be made to recapture the town. It was at this juncture that Captain James Mugford, of the schooner Franklin, captured the British ship Hope, bound for Boston with supplies and fifteen hundred barrels of powder. Two days later, on May 19, the Franklin ran aground at Point Shirley, at the mouth of the harbor, and was at once attacked by boats from the British vessels. A sharp engagement ensued, in which Mugford was killed. His last words are said to have been those used by Lawrence nearly forty years later: "Don't give up the ship! You will beat them off!" And they did.
MUGFORD'S VICTORY
[May 17-19, 1776]
Our mother, the pride of us all,She sits on her crags by the shore,And her feet they are wet with the wavesWhose foam is as flowers from the gravesOf her sons whom she welcomes no more,And who answer no more to her call.Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shellsThey are buried far down in the deep,—The deep which they loved to career.Oh, might we awake them from sleep!Oh, might they our voices but hear,And the sound of our holiday bells!Can it be she is thinking of them,Her face is so proud and so still,And her lashes are moistened with tears?Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,Her lap with your jollity fill,And ask of her thoughts and her fears."Fears!"—we have roused her at last;See! her lips part with a smile,And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,—"Fears! whence should they ever ariseIn our hearts, O my children, the whileWe can remember the past?"Can remember that morning of May,When Mugford went forth with his men,Twenty, and all of them ours.'Tis a hundred years to a day,And the sea and the shore are as then,And as bright are the grass and the flowers;But our twenty—they come not again!"He had heard of the terrible needOf the patriot army thereIn Boston town. Now for a deedTo save it from despair!To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,And hope new-born to all the land impart!"Hope! ay; that was the very nameOf the good ship that cameFrom England far away,Laden with enginery of death,Food for the cannon's fiery breath;Hope-laden for great Washington,Who, but for her, was quite undoneA hundred years ago to-day."'Oh, but to meet her there,And grapple with her fair,Out in the open bay!'Mugford to Glover said.How could he answer nay?And Mugford sailed away,Brave heart and newly wed."But what are woman's tears,And rosy cheeks made pale,To one who far off hearsThe generations hailA deed like this we celebrate to-day,A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!"I love to picture him,Clear-eyed and strong of limb,Gazing his last upon the rocky shoreHis feet should press no more;Seeing the tall church-steeples fade awayIn distance soft and gray;So dropping down below the horizon's rimWhere fame awaited him."Slow sailing from the east his victim came.They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,And she was ours;In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,Great joy for Washington!But heavy grew the hoursOn Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,His mother proud, news of his victory;But that was not to be!"Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of grayThe British cruisers lay:They saw the daring skipper dropping downFrom the much-hated rebel-haunted town,And in the twilight dimTheir boats awaited him,While wind and tide conspiredTo grant what they desired."Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;But Mugford gayly laughedAnd gave them blow for blow;And many a hapless foeWent hurtling down below.Upon the schooner's railFell, like a thresher's flail,The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,And pistol-crack through many an eager heartSent deadly hail.But when the fight was o'er,Brave Mugford was no more.Crying, with death-white lip,'Boys, don't give up the ship!'His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore."We gave him burial meet;Through every sobbing streetA thousand men marched with their arms reversed;And Parson Story told,In sentences of gold,The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."Such is the story she tells,Our mother, the pride of us all.Ring out your music, O bells,That ever such things could befall!Ring not for Mugford alone,Ring for the twenty unknown,Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,Who saw his last look when he died,And who brought him, though dead, to his own!John White Chadwick.
Our mother, the pride of us all,She sits on her crags by the shore,And her feet they are wet with the wavesWhose foam is as flowers from the gravesOf her sons whom she welcomes no more,And who answer no more to her call.Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shellsThey are buried far down in the deep,—The deep which they loved to career.Oh, might we awake them from sleep!Oh, might they our voices but hear,And the sound of our holiday bells!Can it be she is thinking of them,Her face is so proud and so still,And her lashes are moistened with tears?Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,Her lap with your jollity fill,And ask of her thoughts and her fears."Fears!"—we have roused her at last;See! her lips part with a smile,And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,—"Fears! whence should they ever ariseIn our hearts, O my children, the whileWe can remember the past?"Can remember that morning of May,When Mugford went forth with his men,Twenty, and all of them ours.'Tis a hundred years to a day,And the sea and the shore are as then,And as bright are the grass and the flowers;But our twenty—they come not again!"He had heard of the terrible needOf the patriot army thereIn Boston town. Now for a deedTo save it from despair!To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,And hope new-born to all the land impart!"Hope! ay; that was the very nameOf the good ship that cameFrom England far away,Laden with enginery of death,Food for the cannon's fiery breath;Hope-laden for great Washington,Who, but for her, was quite undoneA hundred years ago to-day."'Oh, but to meet her there,And grapple with her fair,Out in the open bay!'Mugford to Glover said.How could he answer nay?And Mugford sailed away,Brave heart and newly wed."But what are woman's tears,And rosy cheeks made pale,To one who far off hearsThe generations hailA deed like this we celebrate to-day,A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!"I love to picture him,Clear-eyed and strong of limb,Gazing his last upon the rocky shoreHis feet should press no more;Seeing the tall church-steeples fade awayIn distance soft and gray;So dropping down below the horizon's rimWhere fame awaited him."Slow sailing from the east his victim came.They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,And she was ours;In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,Great joy for Washington!But heavy grew the hoursOn Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,His mother proud, news of his victory;But that was not to be!"Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of grayThe British cruisers lay:They saw the daring skipper dropping downFrom the much-hated rebel-haunted town,And in the twilight dimTheir boats awaited him,While wind and tide conspiredTo grant what they desired."Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;But Mugford gayly laughedAnd gave them blow for blow;And many a hapless foeWent hurtling down below.Upon the schooner's railFell, like a thresher's flail,The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,And pistol-crack through many an eager heartSent deadly hail.But when the fight was o'er,Brave Mugford was no more.Crying, with death-white lip,'Boys, don't give up the ship!'His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore."We gave him burial meet;Through every sobbing streetA thousand men marched with their arms reversed;And Parson Story told,In sentences of gold,The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."Such is the story she tells,Our mother, the pride of us all.Ring out your music, O bells,That ever such things could befall!Ring not for Mugford alone,Ring for the twenty unknown,Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,Who saw his last look when he died,And who brought him, though dead, to his own!John White Chadwick.
Our mother, the pride of us all,She sits on her crags by the shore,And her feet they are wet with the wavesWhose foam is as flowers from the gravesOf her sons whom she welcomes no more,And who answer no more to her call.
Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shellsThey are buried far down in the deep,—The deep which they loved to career.Oh, might we awake them from sleep!Oh, might they our voices but hear,And the sound of our holiday bells!
Can it be she is thinking of them,Her face is so proud and so still,And her lashes are moistened with tears?Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,Her lap with your jollity fill,And ask of her thoughts and her fears.
"Fears!"—we have roused her at last;See! her lips part with a smile,And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,—"Fears! whence should they ever ariseIn our hearts, O my children, the whileWe can remember the past?
"Can remember that morning of May,When Mugford went forth with his men,Twenty, and all of them ours.'Tis a hundred years to a day,And the sea and the shore are as then,And as bright are the grass and the flowers;But our twenty—they come not again!
"He had heard of the terrible needOf the patriot army thereIn Boston town. Now for a deedTo save it from despair!To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,And hope new-born to all the land impart!
"Hope! ay; that was the very nameOf the good ship that cameFrom England far away,Laden with enginery of death,Food for the cannon's fiery breath;Hope-laden for great Washington,Who, but for her, was quite undoneA hundred years ago to-day.
"'Oh, but to meet her there,And grapple with her fair,Out in the open bay!'Mugford to Glover said.How could he answer nay?And Mugford sailed away,Brave heart and newly wed.
"But what are woman's tears,And rosy cheeks made pale,To one who far off hearsThe generations hailA deed like this we celebrate to-day,A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!
"I love to picture him,Clear-eyed and strong of limb,Gazing his last upon the rocky shoreHis feet should press no more;Seeing the tall church-steeples fade awayIn distance soft and gray;So dropping down below the horizon's rimWhere fame awaited him.
"Slow sailing from the east his victim came.They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,And she was ours;In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,Great joy for Washington!But heavy grew the hoursOn Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,His mother proud, news of his victory;But that was not to be!
"Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of grayThe British cruisers lay:They saw the daring skipper dropping downFrom the much-hated rebel-haunted town,And in the twilight dimTheir boats awaited him,While wind and tide conspiredTo grant what they desired.
"Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;But Mugford gayly laughedAnd gave them blow for blow;And many a hapless foeWent hurtling down below.Upon the schooner's railFell, like a thresher's flail,The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,And pistol-crack through many an eager heartSent deadly hail.But when the fight was o'er,Brave Mugford was no more.Crying, with death-white lip,'Boys, don't give up the ship!'His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore.
"We gave him burial meet;Through every sobbing streetA thousand men marched with their arms reversed;And Parson Story told,In sentences of gold,The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."
Such is the story she tells,Our mother, the pride of us all.Ring out your music, O bells,That ever such things could befall!Ring not for Mugford alone,Ring for the twenty unknown,Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,Who saw his last look when he died,And who brought him, though dead, to his own!
John White Chadwick.
A month later, on June 14, 1775, the Continentals occupied various islands and points in the bay, and opened so hot a fire upon the British ships that they were finally forced to weigh anchor and sail away. The news of the capture of Boston and departure of the British was received with the greatest rejoicing throughout the country. Among the many songs composed to celebrate the event, one, "Off from Boston," gained wide popularity.
A month later, on June 14, 1775, the Continentals occupied various islands and points in the bay, and opened so hot a fire upon the British ships that they were finally forced to weigh anchor and sail away. The news of the capture of Boston and departure of the British was received with the greatest rejoicing throughout the country. Among the many songs composed to celebrate the event, one, "Off from Boston," gained wide popularity.
OFF FROM BOSTON