When North first beganWith his taxation plan,The Colonies all to supplant,To Britain's true cause,And her liberty, laws,Oh, how did he scorn to recant.Oh! how did he boastOf his pow'r and his host,Alternately swagger and cant;Of freedom so dear,Not a word would he hear,Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.That freedom he sworeThey ne'er should have more,Their money to give and to grant;Whene'er they addressed,What disdain he express'd,Not thinking they'd make him recant.He armies sent o'erTo America's shore,New government there to transplant;But every campaignProv'd his force to be vain,Yet still he refus'd to recant.But with all their bombast,They were so beat at last,As to silence his impious rant;Who for want of success,Could at last do no lessThan draw in his horns, and recant.With his brother Burgoyne,He's forc'd now to join,And a treaty of peace for to want;Says he ne'er will fight,But will give up his rightTo taxation, and freely recant.With the great General Howe,He'd be very glad now,He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;And ev'ry proud ScotIn the devilish plot,With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.Old England, alas!They have brought to such pass,Too late are proposals extant;America's lost,Our glory at mostIs only that—tyrants recant.
When North first beganWith his taxation plan,The Colonies all to supplant,To Britain's true cause,And her liberty, laws,Oh, how did he scorn to recant.Oh! how did he boastOf his pow'r and his host,Alternately swagger and cant;Of freedom so dear,Not a word would he hear,Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.That freedom he sworeThey ne'er should have more,Their money to give and to grant;Whene'er they addressed,What disdain he express'd,Not thinking they'd make him recant.He armies sent o'erTo America's shore,New government there to transplant;But every campaignProv'd his force to be vain,Yet still he refus'd to recant.But with all their bombast,They were so beat at last,As to silence his impious rant;Who for want of success,Could at last do no lessThan draw in his horns, and recant.With his brother Burgoyne,He's forc'd now to join,And a treaty of peace for to want;Says he ne'er will fight,But will give up his rightTo taxation, and freely recant.With the great General Howe,He'd be very glad now,He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;And ev'ry proud ScotIn the devilish plot,With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.Old England, alas!They have brought to such pass,Too late are proposals extant;America's lost,Our glory at mostIs only that—tyrants recant.
When North first beganWith his taxation plan,The Colonies all to supplant,To Britain's true cause,And her liberty, laws,Oh, how did he scorn to recant.
Oh! how did he boastOf his pow'r and his host,Alternately swagger and cant;Of freedom so dear,Not a word would he hear,Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.
That freedom he sworeThey ne'er should have more,Their money to give and to grant;Whene'er they addressed,What disdain he express'd,Not thinking they'd make him recant.
He armies sent o'erTo America's shore,New government there to transplant;But every campaignProv'd his force to be vain,Yet still he refus'd to recant.
But with all their bombast,They were so beat at last,As to silence his impious rant;Who for want of success,Could at last do no lessThan draw in his horns, and recant.
With his brother Burgoyne,He's forc'd now to join,And a treaty of peace for to want;Says he ne'er will fight,But will give up his rightTo taxation, and freely recant.
With the great General Howe,He'd be very glad now,He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;And ev'ry proud ScotIn the devilish plot,With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.
Old England, alas!They have brought to such pass,Too late are proposals extant;America's lost,Our glory at mostIs only that—tyrants recant.
But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared.
But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared.
A NEW BALLAD
[1778]
Rouse, Britons! at length,And put forth your strengthPerfidious France to resist;Ten Frenchmen will fly,To shun a black eye,If an Englishman doubles his fist.Derry down, down, hey derry down.But if they feel stout,Why let them turn out,With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,Brave Hardy's sea thunderShall strike them with wonder,And make the frogs leap in their bellies!For their Dons and their shipsWe care not three skipsOf a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O!We'll bang their bare ribsFor the infamous fibsCramm'd into their fine manifesto.Our brethren so franticAcross the Atlantic,Who quit their old friends in a huff,In spite of their airs,Are at their last prayers,And of fighting have had quantum suff.Then if powers at a distanceShould offer assistance,Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"Old England's a matchAnd more for old scratch,A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!Derry down, down, hey derry down.
Rouse, Britons! at length,And put forth your strengthPerfidious France to resist;Ten Frenchmen will fly,To shun a black eye,If an Englishman doubles his fist.Derry down, down, hey derry down.But if they feel stout,Why let them turn out,With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,Brave Hardy's sea thunderShall strike them with wonder,And make the frogs leap in their bellies!For their Dons and their shipsWe care not three skipsOf a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O!We'll bang their bare ribsFor the infamous fibsCramm'd into their fine manifesto.Our brethren so franticAcross the Atlantic,Who quit their old friends in a huff,In spite of their airs,Are at their last prayers,And of fighting have had quantum suff.Then if powers at a distanceShould offer assistance,Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"Old England's a matchAnd more for old scratch,A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!Derry down, down, hey derry down.
Rouse, Britons! at length,And put forth your strengthPerfidious France to resist;Ten Frenchmen will fly,To shun a black eye,If an Englishman doubles his fist.Derry down, down, hey derry down.
But if they feel stout,Why let them turn out,With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,Brave Hardy's sea thunderShall strike them with wonder,And make the frogs leap in their bellies!
For their Dons and their shipsWe care not three skipsOf a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O!We'll bang their bare ribsFor the infamous fibsCramm'd into their fine manifesto.
Our brethren so franticAcross the Atlantic,Who quit their old friends in a huff,In spite of their airs,Are at their last prayers,And of fighting have had quantum suff.
Then if powers at a distanceShould offer assistance,Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"Old England's a matchAnd more for old scratch,A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!Derry down, down, hey derry down.
In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad, the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777, assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to attack him, was forced to retire to New York.
In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad, the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777, assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to attack him, was forced to retire to New York.
GENERAL HOWE'S LETTER
The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified.
[June, 1777]
As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.Derry down, down, hey derry down.There I met them in person, and took the command,When I instantly told them the job upon hand;I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.With this omen elated, towards QuibbletownI led them, concluding the day was our own;For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,—But Putnam and Washington, d—n them, were there!I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skillThe rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.There were then but two ways,—to retreat or attack,And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;So just as we went, we return'd to this place,With no other diff'rence,—than mending our pace.Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,—Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.Having briefly, my lord, told you,—how the land lies,I hope there's enough—for a word to the wise;'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,—But, fighting or flying,—I'm your very humble.
As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.Derry down, down, hey derry down.There I met them in person, and took the command,When I instantly told them the job upon hand;I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.With this omen elated, towards QuibbletownI led them, concluding the day was our own;For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,—But Putnam and Washington, d—n them, were there!I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skillThe rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.There were then but two ways,—to retreat or attack,And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;So just as we went, we return'd to this place,With no other diff'rence,—than mending our pace.Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,—Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.Having briefly, my lord, told you,—how the land lies,I hope there's enough—for a word to the wise;'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,—But, fighting or flying,—I'm your very humble.
As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.Derry down, down, hey derry down.
There I met them in person, and took the command,When I instantly told them the job upon hand;I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.
With this omen elated, towards QuibbletownI led them, concluding the day was our own;For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,—But Putnam and Washington, d—n them, were there!
I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skillThe rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.
There were then but two ways,—to retreat or attack,And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.
Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;So just as we went, we return'd to this place,With no other diff'rence,—than mending our pace.
Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,—Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.
Having briefly, my lord, told you,—how the land lies,I hope there's enough—for a word to the wise;'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,—But, fighting or flying,—I'm your very humble.
Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11, 1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.
Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11, 1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.
CARMEN BELLICOSUM
In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon-shot;When the filesOf the isles,From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires:As the roarOf the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers;And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metreRound their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangorOn our flanks:Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!Then the bareheaded ColonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder-cloud;And his broadsword was swingingAnd his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet-loud.Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,Hurling Death.Guy Humphreys McMaster.
In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon-shot;When the filesOf the isles,From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires:As the roarOf the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers;And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metreRound their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangorOn our flanks:Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!Then the bareheaded ColonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder-cloud;And his broadsword was swingingAnd his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet-loud.Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,Hurling Death.Guy Humphreys McMaster.
In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon-shot;When the filesOf the isles,From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires:As the roarOf the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers;And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metreRound their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangorOn our flanks:Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!
Then the bareheaded ColonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder-cloud;And his broadsword was swingingAnd his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet-loud.Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,Hurling Death.
Guy Humphreys McMaster.
Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where, through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion, it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.
Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where, through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion, it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.
VALLEY FORGE
From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"
[1777-78]
O'er town and cottage, vale and height,Down came the Winter, fierce and white,And shuddering wildly, as distraughtAt horrors his own hand had wrought.His child, the young Year, newly born,Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,As on a frozen heath benighted.In vain the hearths were set aglow,In vain the evening lamps were lighted,To cheer the dreary realm of snow:Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.How sad the wretch at morn or eveCompelled his starving home to leave,Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,Toils slowly on from rift to rift,Still hearing in his aching earThe cry his fancy whispers near,Of little ones who weep for breadWithin an ill-provided shed!But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,Freezing the tear it caused to start,Was the inevitable chillWhich pierced a nation's agued heart,—A nation with its naked breastAgainst the frozen barriers prest,Heaving its tedious way and slowThrough shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,Where every blast that whistled byWas bitter with its children's cry.Such was the winter's awful sightFor many a dreary day and night,What time our country's hope forlorn,Of every needed comfort shorn,Lay housed within a hurried tent,Where every keen blast found a rent,And oft the snow was seen to siftAlong the floor its piling drift,Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,Across the night-couch frequent rolled;Where every path by a soldier beat,Or every track where a sentinel stood,Still held the print of naked feet,And oft the crimson stains of blood;Where Famine held her spectral court,And joined by all her fierce allies:She ever loved a camp or fortBeleaguered by the wintry skies,—But chiefly when Disease is by,To sink the frame and dim the eye,Until, with seeking forehead bent,In martial garments cold and damp,Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,To count the charnels of the camp.Such was the winter that prevailedWithin the crowded, frozen gorge;Such were the horrors that assailedThe patriot band at Valley Forge.It was a midnight storm of woesTo clear the sky for Freedom's morn;And such must ever be the throesThe hour when Liberty is born.Thomas Buchanan Read.
O'er town and cottage, vale and height,Down came the Winter, fierce and white,And shuddering wildly, as distraughtAt horrors his own hand had wrought.His child, the young Year, newly born,Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,As on a frozen heath benighted.In vain the hearths were set aglow,In vain the evening lamps were lighted,To cheer the dreary realm of snow:Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.How sad the wretch at morn or eveCompelled his starving home to leave,Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,Toils slowly on from rift to rift,Still hearing in his aching earThe cry his fancy whispers near,Of little ones who weep for breadWithin an ill-provided shed!But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,Freezing the tear it caused to start,Was the inevitable chillWhich pierced a nation's agued heart,—A nation with its naked breastAgainst the frozen barriers prest,Heaving its tedious way and slowThrough shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,Where every blast that whistled byWas bitter with its children's cry.Such was the winter's awful sightFor many a dreary day and night,What time our country's hope forlorn,Of every needed comfort shorn,Lay housed within a hurried tent,Where every keen blast found a rent,And oft the snow was seen to siftAlong the floor its piling drift,Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,Across the night-couch frequent rolled;Where every path by a soldier beat,Or every track where a sentinel stood,Still held the print of naked feet,And oft the crimson stains of blood;Where Famine held her spectral court,And joined by all her fierce allies:She ever loved a camp or fortBeleaguered by the wintry skies,—But chiefly when Disease is by,To sink the frame and dim the eye,Until, with seeking forehead bent,In martial garments cold and damp,Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,To count the charnels of the camp.Such was the winter that prevailedWithin the crowded, frozen gorge;Such were the horrors that assailedThe patriot band at Valley Forge.It was a midnight storm of woesTo clear the sky for Freedom's morn;And such must ever be the throesThe hour when Liberty is born.Thomas Buchanan Read.
O'er town and cottage, vale and height,Down came the Winter, fierce and white,And shuddering wildly, as distraughtAt horrors his own hand had wrought.
His child, the young Year, newly born,Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,As on a frozen heath benighted.In vain the hearths were set aglow,In vain the evening lamps were lighted,To cheer the dreary realm of snow:Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.
How sad the wretch at morn or eveCompelled his starving home to leave,Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,Toils slowly on from rift to rift,Still hearing in his aching earThe cry his fancy whispers near,Of little ones who weep for breadWithin an ill-provided shed!
But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,Freezing the tear it caused to start,Was the inevitable chillWhich pierced a nation's agued heart,—A nation with its naked breastAgainst the frozen barriers prest,Heaving its tedious way and slowThrough shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,Where every blast that whistled byWas bitter with its children's cry.
Such was the winter's awful sightFor many a dreary day and night,What time our country's hope forlorn,Of every needed comfort shorn,Lay housed within a hurried tent,Where every keen blast found a rent,And oft the snow was seen to siftAlong the floor its piling drift,Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,Across the night-couch frequent rolled;Where every path by a soldier beat,Or every track where a sentinel stood,Still held the print of naked feet,And oft the crimson stains of blood;Where Famine held her spectral court,And joined by all her fierce allies:She ever loved a camp or fortBeleaguered by the wintry skies,—But chiefly when Disease is by,To sink the frame and dim the eye,Until, with seeking forehead bent,In martial garments cold and damp,Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,To count the charnels of the camp.
Such was the winter that prevailedWithin the crowded, frozen gorge;Such were the horrors that assailedThe patriot band at Valley Forge.
It was a midnight storm of woesTo clear the sky for Freedom's morn;And such must ever be the throesThe hour when Liberty is born.
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various alarms, one of whichwas celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in thePennsylvania Packet, March 4, 1778.
Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various alarms, one of whichwas celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in thePennsylvania Packet, March 4, 1778.
BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED;OR, THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS
[January 5, 1778]
Gallants attend, and hear a friendTrill forth harmonious ditty;Strange things I'll tell which late befelIn Philadelphia city.'Twas early day, as Poets say,Just when the sun was rising,A soldier stood on a log of wood,And saw a sight surprising.As in a maze he stood to gaze(The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,Come floating down the tide, Sir.A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,This strange appearance viewing,First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,Then said "Some mischief's brewing:"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,Packed up like pickl'd herring;And they're come down t' attack the townIn this new way of ferry'ng."The soldier flew, the sailor too,And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,Wore out their shoes to spread the news,And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.Now up and down, throughout the townMost frantic scenes were acted;And some ran here, and others there,Like men almost distracted.Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,But said the earth had quaked;And girls and boys, with hideous noise,Ran thro' the streets half naked.Sir Williamhe, snug as a flea,Lay all this time a snoring;Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warmIn bed withMrs. Loring.Now in a fright, he starts upright,Awaked by such a clatter;He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,"For God's sake, what's the matter?"At his bedside he then espy'd,Sir Erskineat command, Sir;Upon one foot he had one boot,And t' other in his hand, Sir."Arise, arise,"Sir Erskinecries,"The rebels—more's the pity—Without a boat, are all afloat,And rang'd before the city."The motley crew, in vessels new,With Satan for their guide, Sir,Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,Come driving down the tide, Sir."Therefore prepare for bloody war;These kegs must all be routed;Or surely we dispis'd shall be,And British valor doubted."The royal band now ready stand,All ranged in dread array, Sir,On every slip, on every ship,For to begin the fray, Sir.The cannons roar from shore to shore;The small-arms loud did rattle;Since wars began I'm sure no manE'er saw so strange a battle.Therebeldales, therebelvales,Withrebeltrees surrounded,The distant woods, the hills and floods,Withrebelechoes sounded.The fish below swam to and fro,Attack'd from every quarter;Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay'Mong folks above the water.The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly madeOfrebelstaves and hoops, Sir,Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,The conq'ering British troops, Sir.From morn to night these men of mightDisplay'd amazing courage;And when the sun was fairly down,Retired to sup their porridge.A hundred men, with each a pen,Or more, upon my word, Sir,It is most true, would be too few,Their valor to record, Sir.Such feats did they perform that dayAgainst these wicked kegs, Sir,That years to come,if they get home,They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.Francis Hopkinson.
Gallants attend, and hear a friendTrill forth harmonious ditty;Strange things I'll tell which late befelIn Philadelphia city.'Twas early day, as Poets say,Just when the sun was rising,A soldier stood on a log of wood,And saw a sight surprising.As in a maze he stood to gaze(The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,Come floating down the tide, Sir.A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,This strange appearance viewing,First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,Then said "Some mischief's brewing:"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,Packed up like pickl'd herring;And they're come down t' attack the townIn this new way of ferry'ng."The soldier flew, the sailor too,And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,Wore out their shoes to spread the news,And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.Now up and down, throughout the townMost frantic scenes were acted;And some ran here, and others there,Like men almost distracted.Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,But said the earth had quaked;And girls and boys, with hideous noise,Ran thro' the streets half naked.Sir Williamhe, snug as a flea,Lay all this time a snoring;Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warmIn bed withMrs. Loring.Now in a fright, he starts upright,Awaked by such a clatter;He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,"For God's sake, what's the matter?"At his bedside he then espy'd,Sir Erskineat command, Sir;Upon one foot he had one boot,And t' other in his hand, Sir."Arise, arise,"Sir Erskinecries,"The rebels—more's the pity—Without a boat, are all afloat,And rang'd before the city."The motley crew, in vessels new,With Satan for their guide, Sir,Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,Come driving down the tide, Sir."Therefore prepare for bloody war;These kegs must all be routed;Or surely we dispis'd shall be,And British valor doubted."The royal band now ready stand,All ranged in dread array, Sir,On every slip, on every ship,For to begin the fray, Sir.The cannons roar from shore to shore;The small-arms loud did rattle;Since wars began I'm sure no manE'er saw so strange a battle.Therebeldales, therebelvales,Withrebeltrees surrounded,The distant woods, the hills and floods,Withrebelechoes sounded.The fish below swam to and fro,Attack'd from every quarter;Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay'Mong folks above the water.The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly madeOfrebelstaves and hoops, Sir,Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,The conq'ering British troops, Sir.From morn to night these men of mightDisplay'd amazing courage;And when the sun was fairly down,Retired to sup their porridge.A hundred men, with each a pen,Or more, upon my word, Sir,It is most true, would be too few,Their valor to record, Sir.Such feats did they perform that dayAgainst these wicked kegs, Sir,That years to come,if they get home,They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.Francis Hopkinson.
Gallants attend, and hear a friendTrill forth harmonious ditty;Strange things I'll tell which late befelIn Philadelphia city.
'Twas early day, as Poets say,Just when the sun was rising,A soldier stood on a log of wood,And saw a sight surprising.
As in a maze he stood to gaze(The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,Come floating down the tide, Sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,This strange appearance viewing,First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,Then said "Some mischief's brewing:
"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,Packed up like pickl'd herring;And they're come down t' attack the townIn this new way of ferry'ng."
The soldier flew, the sailor too,And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,Wore out their shoes to spread the news,And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.
Now up and down, throughout the townMost frantic scenes were acted;And some ran here, and others there,Like men almost distracted.
Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,But said the earth had quaked;And girls and boys, with hideous noise,Ran thro' the streets half naked.
Sir Williamhe, snug as a flea,Lay all this time a snoring;Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warmIn bed withMrs. Loring.
Now in a fright, he starts upright,Awaked by such a clatter;He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,"For God's sake, what's the matter?"
At his bedside he then espy'd,Sir Erskineat command, Sir;Upon one foot he had one boot,And t' other in his hand, Sir.
"Arise, arise,"Sir Erskinecries,"The rebels—more's the pity—Without a boat, are all afloat,And rang'd before the city.
"The motley crew, in vessels new,With Satan for their guide, Sir,Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,Come driving down the tide, Sir.
"Therefore prepare for bloody war;These kegs must all be routed;Or surely we dispis'd shall be,And British valor doubted."
The royal band now ready stand,All ranged in dread array, Sir,On every slip, on every ship,For to begin the fray, Sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore;The small-arms loud did rattle;Since wars began I'm sure no manE'er saw so strange a battle.
Therebeldales, therebelvales,Withrebeltrees surrounded,The distant woods, the hills and floods,Withrebelechoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro,Attack'd from every quarter;Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay'Mong folks above the water.
The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly madeOfrebelstaves and hoops, Sir,Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,The conq'ering British troops, Sir.
From morn to night these men of mightDisplay'd amazing courage;And when the sun was fairly down,Retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men, with each a pen,Or more, upon my word, Sir,It is most true, would be too few,Their valor to record, Sir.
Such feats did they perform that dayAgainst these wicked kegs, Sir,That years to come,if they get home,They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.
Francis Hopkinson.
Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in Philadelphia.
Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in Philadelphia.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL[5]
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded downWith food to feed the people of the British-governed town;And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye."Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye."You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he."I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!Carry back againthispackage, and be sure that you are spry!"And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;And, "Miss,Ihave good apples," a bolder lad did cry;But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street,"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.Will Carleton.
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded downWith food to feed the people of the British-governed town;And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye."Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye."You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he."I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!Carry back againthispackage, and be sure that you are spry!"And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;And, "Miss,Ihave good apples," a bolder lad did cry;But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street,"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.Will Carleton.
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded downWith food to feed the people of the British-governed town;And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he."I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!Carry back againthispackage, and be sure that you are spry!"And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;And, "Miss,Ihave good apples," a bolder lad did cry;But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street,"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.
Will Carleton.
Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York. Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington, summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded behind.
Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York. Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington, summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded behind.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Whilst in peaceful quarters lyingWe indulge the glass till late,Far remote the thought of dying,Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:From the summer's sun hot beaming,Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,To the plains where heroes bleeding,Shouts and dying groans arise.Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,To the front close up the long rear,See! the enemy is nigh;Platoons march at proper distance,Cover close each rank and file,They will make a bold resistance,Here, my lads, is gallant toil.Now all you from downy slumberRoused to the soft joys of love,Waked to pleasures without number,Peace and ease your bosoms prove:Round us roars Bellona's thunder,Ah! how close the iron storm,O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,Pass the word there, form, lads, form.To the left display that column,Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;Mark in air yon fiery volume,Who'd refuse a glorious grave;Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,See! our light-bobs gain the hill;Courage, boys, be firm and steady,Hence each care, each fear lie still.Now the dismal cannon roaringSpeaks loud terror to the soul,Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,Ether rings from pole to pole;See, the smoke, how black and dreary,Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,How their groans ascend on high!Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?Oh! can brave men ever yield,Glorious danger now combines us,None but cowards quit the field.To the rear each gun dismounted;Close the breach, and brisk advance.All your former acts recountedThis day's merit shall enhance.Now half-choked with dust and powder,Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:Hark! the din of arms grows louder,Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!See, from flank to flank wide flashing,How each volley rends the gloom;Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,Man and horse now meet their doom;Bravely done! each gallant soldierWell sustained this heavy fire;Alexander ne'er was bolder;Now by regiments retire.See, our second line moves on us,Ope your columns, give them way,Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,These may yet regain the day.Now our second line engaging,Charging close, spreads carnage round,Fierce revenge and fury raging,Angry heroes bite the ground.The souls of brave men here expiringCall for vengeance e'en in death,Frowning still, the dead, the dying,Threaten with their latest breath.To the left obliquely flying,Oh! be ready, level well,Who could think of e'er retiring,See, my lads, those volleys tell.Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,How the squadrons fill the plain!Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.Now our left flank they are turning;Carnage is but just begun;Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,To the shock our breasts oppose,Hark! the shout, the signal beating,See, with bayonets they close:Front rank charge! the rear make ready!Forward, march—reserve your fire!Now present, fire brisk, be steady,March, march, see their lines retire!On the left, our light troops dashing,Now our dragoons charge the rear,Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,They run, they run, hence banish fear!Now the toil and danger's over,Dress alike the wounded brave,Hope again inspires the lover,Old and young forget the grave;Seize the canteen, poise it higher,Rest to each brave soul that fell!Death for this is ne'er the nigher,Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.R. H.
Whilst in peaceful quarters lyingWe indulge the glass till late,Far remote the thought of dying,Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:From the summer's sun hot beaming,Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,To the plains where heroes bleeding,Shouts and dying groans arise.Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,To the front close up the long rear,See! the enemy is nigh;Platoons march at proper distance,Cover close each rank and file,They will make a bold resistance,Here, my lads, is gallant toil.Now all you from downy slumberRoused to the soft joys of love,Waked to pleasures without number,Peace and ease your bosoms prove:Round us roars Bellona's thunder,Ah! how close the iron storm,O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,Pass the word there, form, lads, form.To the left display that column,Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;Mark in air yon fiery volume,Who'd refuse a glorious grave;Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,See! our light-bobs gain the hill;Courage, boys, be firm and steady,Hence each care, each fear lie still.Now the dismal cannon roaringSpeaks loud terror to the soul,Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,Ether rings from pole to pole;See, the smoke, how black and dreary,Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,How their groans ascend on high!Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?Oh! can brave men ever yield,Glorious danger now combines us,None but cowards quit the field.To the rear each gun dismounted;Close the breach, and brisk advance.All your former acts recountedThis day's merit shall enhance.Now half-choked with dust and powder,Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:Hark! the din of arms grows louder,Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!See, from flank to flank wide flashing,How each volley rends the gloom;Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,Man and horse now meet their doom;Bravely done! each gallant soldierWell sustained this heavy fire;Alexander ne'er was bolder;Now by regiments retire.See, our second line moves on us,Ope your columns, give them way,Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,These may yet regain the day.Now our second line engaging,Charging close, spreads carnage round,Fierce revenge and fury raging,Angry heroes bite the ground.The souls of brave men here expiringCall for vengeance e'en in death,Frowning still, the dead, the dying,Threaten with their latest breath.To the left obliquely flying,Oh! be ready, level well,Who could think of e'er retiring,See, my lads, those volleys tell.Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,How the squadrons fill the plain!Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.Now our left flank they are turning;Carnage is but just begun;Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,To the shock our breasts oppose,Hark! the shout, the signal beating,See, with bayonets they close:Front rank charge! the rear make ready!Forward, march—reserve your fire!Now present, fire brisk, be steady,March, march, see their lines retire!On the left, our light troops dashing,Now our dragoons charge the rear,Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,They run, they run, hence banish fear!Now the toil and danger's over,Dress alike the wounded brave,Hope again inspires the lover,Old and young forget the grave;Seize the canteen, poise it higher,Rest to each brave soul that fell!Death for this is ne'er the nigher,Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.R. H.
Whilst in peaceful quarters lyingWe indulge the glass till late,Far remote the thought of dying,Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:From the summer's sun hot beaming,Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,To the plains where heroes bleeding,Shouts and dying groans arise.Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,To the front close up the long rear,See! the enemy is nigh;Platoons march at proper distance,Cover close each rank and file,They will make a bold resistance,Here, my lads, is gallant toil.
Now all you from downy slumberRoused to the soft joys of love,Waked to pleasures without number,Peace and ease your bosoms prove:Round us roars Bellona's thunder,Ah! how close the iron storm,O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,Pass the word there, form, lads, form.To the left display that column,Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;Mark in air yon fiery volume,Who'd refuse a glorious grave;Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,See! our light-bobs gain the hill;Courage, boys, be firm and steady,Hence each care, each fear lie still.
Now the dismal cannon roaringSpeaks loud terror to the soul,Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,Ether rings from pole to pole;See, the smoke, how black and dreary,Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,How their groans ascend on high!Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?Oh! can brave men ever yield,Glorious danger now combines us,None but cowards quit the field.To the rear each gun dismounted;Close the breach, and brisk advance.All your former acts recountedThis day's merit shall enhance.
Now half-choked with dust and powder,Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:Hark! the din of arms grows louder,Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!See, from flank to flank wide flashing,How each volley rends the gloom;Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,Man and horse now meet their doom;Bravely done! each gallant soldierWell sustained this heavy fire;Alexander ne'er was bolder;Now by regiments retire.See, our second line moves on us,Ope your columns, give them way,Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,These may yet regain the day.
Now our second line engaging,Charging close, spreads carnage round,Fierce revenge and fury raging,Angry heroes bite the ground.The souls of brave men here expiringCall for vengeance e'en in death,Frowning still, the dead, the dying,Threaten with their latest breath.To the left obliquely flying,Oh! be ready, level well,Who could think of e'er retiring,See, my lads, those volleys tell.Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,How the squadrons fill the plain!Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.
Now our left flank they are turning;Carnage is but just begun;Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,To the shock our breasts oppose,Hark! the shout, the signal beating,See, with bayonets they close:Front rank charge! the rear make ready!Forward, march—reserve your fire!Now present, fire brisk, be steady,March, march, see their lines retire!On the left, our light troops dashing,Now our dragoons charge the rear,Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,They run, they run, hence banish fear!
Now the toil and danger's over,Dress alike the wounded brave,Hope again inspires the lover,Old and young forget the grave;Seize the canteen, poise it higher,Rest to each brave soul that fell!Death for this is ne'er the nigher,Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.
R. H.
THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH
[June 28, 1778]
Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,Though a stripling at that fight for the right.All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming afterRang around each creaking wain of the train.'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warningOf the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,And the corses gory red of the dead.Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the HessiansHeard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,With the Briton plying steel at their heel.Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o'er the clangor,O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;"Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;"And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of waterFor the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear."Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volleyPouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought usThat, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,While we swept with wrath condign on their line.From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancingShowed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disasterFrom the stronghold that we held back repelled.Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless,Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around themFrom the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspokenWhen, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:So we found the field our own, and alone.How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in a name;But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,Is their monument to-day, and for aye.Thomas Dunn English.
Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,Though a stripling at that fight for the right.All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming afterRang around each creaking wain of the train.'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warningOf the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,And the corses gory red of the dead.Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the HessiansHeard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,With the Briton plying steel at their heel.Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o'er the clangor,O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;"Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;"And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of waterFor the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear."Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volleyPouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought usThat, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,While we swept with wrath condign on their line.From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancingShowed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disasterFrom the stronghold that we held back repelled.Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless,Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around themFrom the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspokenWhen, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:So we found the field our own, and alone.How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in a name;But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,Is their monument to-day, and for aye.Thomas Dunn English.
Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,Though a stripling at that fight for the right.
All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.
Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories—They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those—While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming afterRang around each creaking wain of the train.
'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warningOf the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the fight;Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,And the corses gory red of the dead.
Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the HessiansHeard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.
For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.
I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared not;But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,With the Briton plying steel at their heel.
Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"
Lee grew crimson in his anger—rang his curses o'er the clangor,O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"
At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;"Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the field;"And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.
As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of waterFor the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear."Move the piece!"—but there they found her loading, firing that six-pounder,And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.
Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volleyPouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought usThat, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack:There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,While we swept with wrath condign on their line.
From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancingShowed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disasterFrom the stronghold that we held back repelled.
Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades peerless,Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around themFrom the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.
Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;Heat, and not a drop of water—heat, that won the race of slaughter,Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.
On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspokenWhen, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.
In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories—Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:So we found the field our own, and alone.
How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,By their hands I fain would clasp them—ah! each lives but in a name;But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for,Is their monument to-day, and for aye.
Thomas Dunn English.
The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired, freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington, who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.
The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired, freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington, who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.
MOLLY PITCHER
[June 28, 1778]