From the commandant's quarters on Westchester heightThe blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,But the redcoats are wary—the Hudson's between.Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon—'twill be dark;'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.Not a word—not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!Once across, once again in the seat and away—Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path knowTo the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow—Half in smiles, half in tears—Theodosia Prevost.Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's viewLike this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;British gallants by day through her doors come and go,But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past—But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"Edmund Clarence Stedman.
From the commandant's quarters on Westchester heightThe blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,But the redcoats are wary—the Hudson's between.Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon—'twill be dark;'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.Not a word—not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!Once across, once again in the seat and away—Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path knowTo the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow—Half in smiles, half in tears—Theodosia Prevost.Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's viewLike this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;British gallants by day through her doors come and go,But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past—But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"Edmund Clarence Stedman.
From the commandant's quarters on Westchester heightThe blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,But the redcoats are wary—the Hudson's between.Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon—'twill be dark;'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"
Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.Not a word—not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!Once across, once again in the seat and away—Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path knowTo the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.
Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow—Half in smiles, half in tears—Theodosia Prevost.
Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's viewLike this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;British gallants by day through her doors come and go,But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.
Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past—But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton retreated toward Elizabethtown.
In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton retreated toward Elizabethtown.
THE MODERN JONAS
[June 23, 1780]
You know there goes a tale,How Jonas went on board a whale,Once, for a frolic;And how the whaleSet sailAnd got the cholic;And, after a great splutter,Spew'd him up upon the coast,Just like woodcock on a toast,With trail and butter.There also goes a joke,How Clinton went on board the DukeCount Rochambeau to fight;As he didn't failTo set sailThe first fair gale,For once we thought him right;But, after a great clutter,He turn'd back along the coast,And left the French to make their boast,And Englishmen to mutter.Just so, not long before,Old Knyp,And old ClipWent to the Jersey shore,The rebel rogues to beat;But, at Yankee farms,They took alarms,At little harms,And quickly did retreat.Then after two days' wonder,March'd boldly up to Springfield town,And swore they'd knock the rebels down.But as their foesGave them some blows,They, like the wind,Soon changed their mind.And, in a crack,Returned back,From not one third their number.
You know there goes a tale,How Jonas went on board a whale,Once, for a frolic;And how the whaleSet sailAnd got the cholic;And, after a great splutter,Spew'd him up upon the coast,Just like woodcock on a toast,With trail and butter.There also goes a joke,How Clinton went on board the DukeCount Rochambeau to fight;As he didn't failTo set sailThe first fair gale,For once we thought him right;But, after a great clutter,He turn'd back along the coast,And left the French to make their boast,And Englishmen to mutter.Just so, not long before,Old Knyp,And old ClipWent to the Jersey shore,The rebel rogues to beat;But, at Yankee farms,They took alarms,At little harms,And quickly did retreat.Then after two days' wonder,March'd boldly up to Springfield town,And swore they'd knock the rebels down.But as their foesGave them some blows,They, like the wind,Soon changed their mind.And, in a crack,Returned back,From not one third their number.
You know there goes a tale,How Jonas went on board a whale,Once, for a frolic;And how the whaleSet sailAnd got the cholic;And, after a great splutter,Spew'd him up upon the coast,Just like woodcock on a toast,With trail and butter.
There also goes a joke,How Clinton went on board the DukeCount Rochambeau to fight;As he didn't failTo set sailThe first fair gale,For once we thought him right;But, after a great clutter,He turn'd back along the coast,And left the French to make their boast,And Englishmen to mutter.
Just so, not long before,Old Knyp,And old ClipWent to the Jersey shore,The rebel rogues to beat;But, at Yankee farms,They took alarms,At little harms,And quickly did retreat.
Then after two days' wonder,March'd boldly up to Springfield town,And swore they'd knock the rebels down.But as their foesGave them some blows,They, like the wind,Soon changed their mind.And, in a crack,Returned back,From not one third their number.
On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge described in Mr. Harte's poem.
On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge described in Mr. Harte's poem.
CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD
[June 23, 1780]
Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the heightLay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the rightStood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,—You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heardOf Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the WordDown at Springfield? What, No? Come—that's bad; why he hadAll the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the nameOf the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,For he loved the Lord God,—and he hated King George!He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that dayMarched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their wayAt the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knewBut God—and that one of the hireling crewWho fired the shot! Enough!—there she lay,And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!Did he preach—did he pray? Think of him as you standBy the old church to-day;—think of him and his bandOf militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heatOf that reckless advance,—of that straggling retreat!Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,—And what could you, what should you, what would you do?Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurchFor the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the roadWith his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his loadAt their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,Rang his voice,—"Put Watts into 'em,—Boys, give 'em Watts!"And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blowPretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,—But not always a hero like this,—and that's all.Bret Harte.
Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the heightLay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the rightStood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,—You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heardOf Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the WordDown at Springfield? What, No? Come—that's bad; why he hadAll the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the nameOf the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,For he loved the Lord God,—and he hated King George!He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that dayMarched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their wayAt the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knewBut God—and that one of the hireling crewWho fired the shot! Enough!—there she lay,And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!Did he preach—did he pray? Think of him as you standBy the old church to-day;—think of him and his bandOf militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heatOf that reckless advance,—of that straggling retreat!Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,—And what could you, what should you, what would you do?Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurchFor the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the roadWith his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his loadAt their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,Rang his voice,—"Put Watts into 'em,—Boys, give 'em Watts!"And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blowPretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,—But not always a hero like this,—and that's all.Bret Harte.
Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the heightLay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the rightStood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,—You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heardOf Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the WordDown at Springfield? What, No? Come—that's bad; why he hadAll the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the nameOf the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,For he loved the Lord God,—and he hated King George!
He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that dayMarched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their wayAt the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knewBut God—and that one of the hireling crewWho fired the shot! Enough!—there she lay,And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!
Did he preach—did he pray? Think of him as you standBy the old church to-day;—think of him and his bandOf militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heatOf that reckless advance,—of that straggling retreat!Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,—And what could you, what should you, what would you do?
Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurchFor the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the roadWith his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his loadAt their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,Rang his voice,—"Put Watts into 'em,—Boys, give 'em Watts!"
And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blowPretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,—But not always a hero like this,—and that's all.
Bret Harte.
Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780, General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called "The Cow-Chace."
Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780, General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called "The Cow-Chace."
THE COW-CHACE
[July 21, 1780]
CANTO ITo drive the kine one summer's morn,The Tanner took his way;The calf shall rue that is unbornThe jumbling of that day.And Wayne descending steers shall know,And tauntingly deride;And call to mind in every low,The tanning ofhishide.Yet Bergen cows still ruminate,Unconscious in the stall,What mighty means were used to get,And loose them after all.For many heroes bold and brave,From Newbridge and Tappan,And those that drink Passaic's wave,And those who eat supawn;And sons of distant Delaware,And still remoter Shannon,And Major Lee with horses rare,And Proctor with his cannon.All wond'rous proud in arms they came,What hero could refuseTo tread the rugged path to fame,Who had a pair of shoes!At six, the host with sweating buff,Arrived at Freedom's pole;When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough,Thus speechified the whole:"O ye, whom glory doth unite,Who Freedom's cause espouse;Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight,Or that to drive the cows,"Ere yet you tempt your further way,Or into action come,Hear, soldiers, what I have to say,And take a pint of rum."Intemp'rate valor then will stringEach nervous arm the better;So all the land shall I O sing,And read the Gen'ral's letter."Know that some paltry refugees,Whom I've a mind to fright,Are playing h—l amongst the treesThat grow on yonder height."Their fort and blockhouses we'll level,And deal a horrid slaughter;We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil,And ravish wife and daughter."I, under cover of th' attack,Whilst you are all at blows,From English neighb'rhood and Nyack,Will drive away the cows;"For well you know the latter isThe serious operation,And fighting with the refugeesIs only demonstration."His daring words, from all the crowd,Such great applause did gain,That every man declar'd aloudFor serious work with Wayne.Then from the cask of rum once more,They took a heady gill;When one and all, they loudly swore,They'd fight upon the hill.But here—the Muse hath not a strainBefitting such great deeds;Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne,And shouting,—did their needs.CANTO IINear his meridian pomp, the sunHad journey'd from th' horizon;When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on,Of heroes drunk as pison.The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths,Reëchoed through the wood;Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes,And some to swim in blood.At Irving's nod 'twas fine to seeThe left prepare to fight;The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,Drew off upon the right.Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate,Nor can the Muse assist her;Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat,Or he that gives a clyster.For greatly one was signaliz'd,That fought on Chestnut Hill;And Canada immortaliz'dThe vender of the pill.Yet their attendance upon Proctor,They both might have to boast of;For there was business for the doctor,And hats to be disposed of.Let none uncandidly infer,That Stirling wanted spunk;The self-made peer had sure been there,But that the peer was drunk.But turn we to the Hudson's banks,Where stood the modest train,With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.For them the unrelenting handOf rebel fury drove,And tore from ev'ry genial bandOf friendship and of love.And some within the dungeon's gloom,By mock tribunals laid,Had waited long a cruel doomImpending o'er each head.Here one bewails a brother's fate,There one a sire demands,Cut off, alas! before their date,By ignominious hands.And silver'd grandsires here appear'dIn deep distress serene,Of reverent manners that declar'dThe better days they'd seen.Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,Thine all these tales of woe;Shall at thy dire insatiate shrineBlood never cease to flow?And now the foe began to leadHis forces to th' attack;Balls whistling unto balls succeed,And make the blockhouse crack.No shot could pass, if you will takeThe Gen'ral's word for true;But 'tis a d——ble mistake,For ev'ry shot went thro'.The firmer as the rebels press'd,The loyal heroes stand;Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,And industry each hand.In valor's frenzy, HamiltonRode like a soldier big,And Secretary Harrison,With pen stuck in his wig.But lest their chieftain, Washington,Should mourn them in the mumps,The fate of Withrington to shun,They fought behind the stumps.But ah, Thaddeus Posset, whyShould thy poor soul elope?And why should Titus Hooper die,Ay, die—without a rope?Apostate Murphy, thou to whomFair Shela ne'er was cruel,In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,"Och! would ye die, my jewel?"Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,Of melancholy fate;The gray goose stolen as he went,In his heart's blood was wet.Now, as the fight was further fought,And balls began to thicken,The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,The color of a lickin'.Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,And to redeem the day,Cry,Soldiers, charge!they hear, they stand,They turn and run away.CANTO IIINot all delights the bloody spear,Or horrid din of battle;There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hearA word about the cattle.The chief whom we beheld of late,Near Schralenberg haranging,At Yan Van Poop's unconscious satOf Irving's hearty banging.Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,Most bravely did opposeThe tears of woman and of child,Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,Required a relief,Not all the blessings could impartOf battle or of beef.For now a prey to female charms,His soul took more delight inA lovely hamadryad's arms,Than cow-driving or fighting.A nymph the refugees had droveFar from her native tree,Just happen'd to be on the move,When up came Wayne and Lee.She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye,The hero saw portray'd,And all in tears she took him by—The bridle of his jade."Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander!No human lamentations;The trees you see them cutting yonder,Are all my near relations."And I, forlorn! implore thine aid,To free the sacred grove;So shall thy prowess be repaidWith an immortal's love."Now some, to prove she was a goddess,Said this enchanting fairHad late retirèd from the BodiesIn all the pomp of war.The drums and merry fifes had play'dTo honor her retreat,And Cunningham himself convey'dThe lady through the street.Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd,To no inquiry stoops,But takes the fair afflicted maidRight into Yan Van Poop's.So Roman Anthony, they say,Disgraced th' imperial banner,And for a gypsy lost a day,Like Anthony the tanner.The hamadryad had but halfReceiv'd redress from Wayne,When drums and colors, cow and calf,Came down the road amain.And in a cloud of dust was seenThe sheep, the horse, the goat,The gentle heifer, ass obscene,The yearling and the shoat.And pack-horses with fowls came by,Be-feather'd on each side,Like Pegasus, the horse that IAnd other poets ride.Sublime upon his stirrups roseThe mighty Lee behind,And drove the terror-smitten cowsLike chaff before the wind.But sudden see the woods abovePour down another corps,All helter-skelter in a drove,Like that I sung before.Irving and terror in the van,Came flying all abroad;And cannon, colors, horse, and man,Ran tumbling to the road.Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry,And his example too,"Run on, my merry men—for why?The shot will not go thro'."As when two kennels in the street,Swell'd with a recent rain,In gushing streams together meetAnd seek the neighboring drain;So met these dung-born tribes in one,As swift in their career,And so to Newbridge they ran on—But all the cows got clear.Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder,Saw the returning train,And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunderFor them to steal again.For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, andTo share with each commander,As he had done at Staten IslandWith frost-bit Alexander.In his dismay, the frantic priestBegan to grow prophetic;You'd swore, to see his laboring breast,He'd taken an emetic."I view a future day," said he,"Brighter than this dark day is;And you shall see what you shall see,Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!"And he shall come to Paulus Hook,And great achievements think on;And make a bow and take a look,Like Satan over Lincoln."And every one around shall gloryTo see the Frenchman caper;And pretty Susan tell the storyIn the next Chatham paper."This solemn prophecy, of course,Gave all much consolation,Except to Wayne, who lost his horseUpon that great occasion.His horse that carried all his prog,His military speeches,His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,Blue stockings and brown breeches.And now I've clos'd my epic strain,I tremble as I show it,Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,Should ever catch the poet.John André.
CANTO ITo drive the kine one summer's morn,The Tanner took his way;The calf shall rue that is unbornThe jumbling of that day.And Wayne descending steers shall know,And tauntingly deride;And call to mind in every low,The tanning ofhishide.Yet Bergen cows still ruminate,Unconscious in the stall,What mighty means were used to get,And loose them after all.For many heroes bold and brave,From Newbridge and Tappan,And those that drink Passaic's wave,And those who eat supawn;And sons of distant Delaware,And still remoter Shannon,And Major Lee with horses rare,And Proctor with his cannon.All wond'rous proud in arms they came,What hero could refuseTo tread the rugged path to fame,Who had a pair of shoes!At six, the host with sweating buff,Arrived at Freedom's pole;When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough,Thus speechified the whole:"O ye, whom glory doth unite,Who Freedom's cause espouse;Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight,Or that to drive the cows,"Ere yet you tempt your further way,Or into action come,Hear, soldiers, what I have to say,And take a pint of rum."Intemp'rate valor then will stringEach nervous arm the better;So all the land shall I O sing,And read the Gen'ral's letter."Know that some paltry refugees,Whom I've a mind to fright,Are playing h—l amongst the treesThat grow on yonder height."Their fort and blockhouses we'll level,And deal a horrid slaughter;We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil,And ravish wife and daughter."I, under cover of th' attack,Whilst you are all at blows,From English neighb'rhood and Nyack,Will drive away the cows;"For well you know the latter isThe serious operation,And fighting with the refugeesIs only demonstration."His daring words, from all the crowd,Such great applause did gain,That every man declar'd aloudFor serious work with Wayne.Then from the cask of rum once more,They took a heady gill;When one and all, they loudly swore,They'd fight upon the hill.But here—the Muse hath not a strainBefitting such great deeds;Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne,And shouting,—did their needs.CANTO IINear his meridian pomp, the sunHad journey'd from th' horizon;When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on,Of heroes drunk as pison.The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths,Reëchoed through the wood;Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes,And some to swim in blood.At Irving's nod 'twas fine to seeThe left prepare to fight;The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,Drew off upon the right.Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate,Nor can the Muse assist her;Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat,Or he that gives a clyster.For greatly one was signaliz'd,That fought on Chestnut Hill;And Canada immortaliz'dThe vender of the pill.Yet their attendance upon Proctor,They both might have to boast of;For there was business for the doctor,And hats to be disposed of.Let none uncandidly infer,That Stirling wanted spunk;The self-made peer had sure been there,But that the peer was drunk.But turn we to the Hudson's banks,Where stood the modest train,With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.For them the unrelenting handOf rebel fury drove,And tore from ev'ry genial bandOf friendship and of love.And some within the dungeon's gloom,By mock tribunals laid,Had waited long a cruel doomImpending o'er each head.Here one bewails a brother's fate,There one a sire demands,Cut off, alas! before their date,By ignominious hands.And silver'd grandsires here appear'dIn deep distress serene,Of reverent manners that declar'dThe better days they'd seen.Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,Thine all these tales of woe;Shall at thy dire insatiate shrineBlood never cease to flow?And now the foe began to leadHis forces to th' attack;Balls whistling unto balls succeed,And make the blockhouse crack.No shot could pass, if you will takeThe Gen'ral's word for true;But 'tis a d——ble mistake,For ev'ry shot went thro'.The firmer as the rebels press'd,The loyal heroes stand;Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,And industry each hand.In valor's frenzy, HamiltonRode like a soldier big,And Secretary Harrison,With pen stuck in his wig.But lest their chieftain, Washington,Should mourn them in the mumps,The fate of Withrington to shun,They fought behind the stumps.But ah, Thaddeus Posset, whyShould thy poor soul elope?And why should Titus Hooper die,Ay, die—without a rope?Apostate Murphy, thou to whomFair Shela ne'er was cruel,In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,"Och! would ye die, my jewel?"Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,Of melancholy fate;The gray goose stolen as he went,In his heart's blood was wet.Now, as the fight was further fought,And balls began to thicken,The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,The color of a lickin'.Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,And to redeem the day,Cry,Soldiers, charge!they hear, they stand,They turn and run away.CANTO IIINot all delights the bloody spear,Or horrid din of battle;There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hearA word about the cattle.The chief whom we beheld of late,Near Schralenberg haranging,At Yan Van Poop's unconscious satOf Irving's hearty banging.Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,Most bravely did opposeThe tears of woman and of child,Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,Required a relief,Not all the blessings could impartOf battle or of beef.For now a prey to female charms,His soul took more delight inA lovely hamadryad's arms,Than cow-driving or fighting.A nymph the refugees had droveFar from her native tree,Just happen'd to be on the move,When up came Wayne and Lee.She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye,The hero saw portray'd,And all in tears she took him by—The bridle of his jade."Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander!No human lamentations;The trees you see them cutting yonder,Are all my near relations."And I, forlorn! implore thine aid,To free the sacred grove;So shall thy prowess be repaidWith an immortal's love."Now some, to prove she was a goddess,Said this enchanting fairHad late retirèd from the BodiesIn all the pomp of war.The drums and merry fifes had play'dTo honor her retreat,And Cunningham himself convey'dThe lady through the street.Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd,To no inquiry stoops,But takes the fair afflicted maidRight into Yan Van Poop's.So Roman Anthony, they say,Disgraced th' imperial banner,And for a gypsy lost a day,Like Anthony the tanner.The hamadryad had but halfReceiv'd redress from Wayne,When drums and colors, cow and calf,Came down the road amain.And in a cloud of dust was seenThe sheep, the horse, the goat,The gentle heifer, ass obscene,The yearling and the shoat.And pack-horses with fowls came by,Be-feather'd on each side,Like Pegasus, the horse that IAnd other poets ride.Sublime upon his stirrups roseThe mighty Lee behind,And drove the terror-smitten cowsLike chaff before the wind.But sudden see the woods abovePour down another corps,All helter-skelter in a drove,Like that I sung before.Irving and terror in the van,Came flying all abroad;And cannon, colors, horse, and man,Ran tumbling to the road.Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry,And his example too,"Run on, my merry men—for why?The shot will not go thro'."As when two kennels in the street,Swell'd with a recent rain,In gushing streams together meetAnd seek the neighboring drain;So met these dung-born tribes in one,As swift in their career,And so to Newbridge they ran on—But all the cows got clear.Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder,Saw the returning train,And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunderFor them to steal again.For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, andTo share with each commander,As he had done at Staten IslandWith frost-bit Alexander.In his dismay, the frantic priestBegan to grow prophetic;You'd swore, to see his laboring breast,He'd taken an emetic."I view a future day," said he,"Brighter than this dark day is;And you shall see what you shall see,Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!"And he shall come to Paulus Hook,And great achievements think on;And make a bow and take a look,Like Satan over Lincoln."And every one around shall gloryTo see the Frenchman caper;And pretty Susan tell the storyIn the next Chatham paper."This solemn prophecy, of course,Gave all much consolation,Except to Wayne, who lost his horseUpon that great occasion.His horse that carried all his prog,His military speeches,His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,Blue stockings and brown breeches.And now I've clos'd my epic strain,I tremble as I show it,Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,Should ever catch the poet.John André.
CANTO ITo drive the kine one summer's morn,The Tanner took his way;The calf shall rue that is unbornThe jumbling of that day.
And Wayne descending steers shall know,And tauntingly deride;And call to mind in every low,The tanning ofhishide.
Yet Bergen cows still ruminate,Unconscious in the stall,What mighty means were used to get,And loose them after all.
For many heroes bold and brave,From Newbridge and Tappan,And those that drink Passaic's wave,And those who eat supawn;
And sons of distant Delaware,And still remoter Shannon,And Major Lee with horses rare,And Proctor with his cannon.
All wond'rous proud in arms they came,What hero could refuseTo tread the rugged path to fame,Who had a pair of shoes!
At six, the host with sweating buff,Arrived at Freedom's pole;When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough,Thus speechified the whole:
"O ye, whom glory doth unite,Who Freedom's cause espouse;Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight,Or that to drive the cows,
"Ere yet you tempt your further way,Or into action come,Hear, soldiers, what I have to say,And take a pint of rum.
"Intemp'rate valor then will stringEach nervous arm the better;So all the land shall I O sing,And read the Gen'ral's letter.
"Know that some paltry refugees,Whom I've a mind to fright,Are playing h—l amongst the treesThat grow on yonder height.
"Their fort and blockhouses we'll level,And deal a horrid slaughter;We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil,And ravish wife and daughter.
"I, under cover of th' attack,Whilst you are all at blows,From English neighb'rhood and Nyack,Will drive away the cows;
"For well you know the latter isThe serious operation,And fighting with the refugeesIs only demonstration."
His daring words, from all the crowd,Such great applause did gain,That every man declar'd aloudFor serious work with Wayne.
Then from the cask of rum once more,They took a heady gill;When one and all, they loudly swore,They'd fight upon the hill.
But here—the Muse hath not a strainBefitting such great deeds;Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne,And shouting,—did their needs.
CANTO IINear his meridian pomp, the sunHad journey'd from th' horizon;When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on,Of heroes drunk as pison.
The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths,Reëchoed through the wood;Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes,And some to swim in blood.
At Irving's nod 'twas fine to seeThe left prepare to fight;The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,Drew off upon the right.
Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate,Nor can the Muse assist her;Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat,Or he that gives a clyster.
For greatly one was signaliz'd,That fought on Chestnut Hill;And Canada immortaliz'dThe vender of the pill.
Yet their attendance upon Proctor,They both might have to boast of;For there was business for the doctor,And hats to be disposed of.
Let none uncandidly infer,That Stirling wanted spunk;The self-made peer had sure been there,But that the peer was drunk.
But turn we to the Hudson's banks,Where stood the modest train,With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.
For them the unrelenting handOf rebel fury drove,And tore from ev'ry genial bandOf friendship and of love.
And some within the dungeon's gloom,By mock tribunals laid,Had waited long a cruel doomImpending o'er each head.
Here one bewails a brother's fate,There one a sire demands,Cut off, alas! before their date,By ignominious hands.
And silver'd grandsires here appear'dIn deep distress serene,Of reverent manners that declar'dThe better days they'd seen.
Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,Thine all these tales of woe;Shall at thy dire insatiate shrineBlood never cease to flow?
And now the foe began to leadHis forces to th' attack;Balls whistling unto balls succeed,And make the blockhouse crack.
No shot could pass, if you will takeThe Gen'ral's word for true;But 'tis a d——ble mistake,For ev'ry shot went thro'.
The firmer as the rebels press'd,The loyal heroes stand;Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,And industry each hand.
In valor's frenzy, HamiltonRode like a soldier big,And Secretary Harrison,With pen stuck in his wig.
But lest their chieftain, Washington,Should mourn them in the mumps,The fate of Withrington to shun,They fought behind the stumps.
But ah, Thaddeus Posset, whyShould thy poor soul elope?And why should Titus Hooper die,Ay, die—without a rope?
Apostate Murphy, thou to whomFair Shela ne'er was cruel,In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,"Och! would ye die, my jewel?"
Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,Of melancholy fate;The gray goose stolen as he went,In his heart's blood was wet.
Now, as the fight was further fought,And balls began to thicken,The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,The color of a lickin'.
Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,And to redeem the day,Cry,Soldiers, charge!they hear, they stand,They turn and run away.
CANTO IIINot all delights the bloody spear,Or horrid din of battle;There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hearA word about the cattle.
The chief whom we beheld of late,Near Schralenberg haranging,At Yan Van Poop's unconscious satOf Irving's hearty banging.
Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,Most bravely did opposeThe tears of woman and of child,Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.
But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,Required a relief,Not all the blessings could impartOf battle or of beef.
For now a prey to female charms,His soul took more delight inA lovely hamadryad's arms,Than cow-driving or fighting.
A nymph the refugees had droveFar from her native tree,Just happen'd to be on the move,When up came Wayne and Lee.
She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye,The hero saw portray'd,And all in tears she took him by—The bridle of his jade.
"Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander!No human lamentations;The trees you see them cutting yonder,Are all my near relations.
"And I, forlorn! implore thine aid,To free the sacred grove;So shall thy prowess be repaidWith an immortal's love."
Now some, to prove she was a goddess,Said this enchanting fairHad late retirèd from the BodiesIn all the pomp of war.
The drums and merry fifes had play'dTo honor her retreat,And Cunningham himself convey'dThe lady through the street.
Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd,To no inquiry stoops,But takes the fair afflicted maidRight into Yan Van Poop's.
So Roman Anthony, they say,Disgraced th' imperial banner,And for a gypsy lost a day,Like Anthony the tanner.
The hamadryad had but halfReceiv'd redress from Wayne,When drums and colors, cow and calf,Came down the road amain.
And in a cloud of dust was seenThe sheep, the horse, the goat,The gentle heifer, ass obscene,The yearling and the shoat.
And pack-horses with fowls came by,Be-feather'd on each side,Like Pegasus, the horse that IAnd other poets ride.
Sublime upon his stirrups roseThe mighty Lee behind,And drove the terror-smitten cowsLike chaff before the wind.
But sudden see the woods abovePour down another corps,All helter-skelter in a drove,Like that I sung before.
Irving and terror in the van,Came flying all abroad;And cannon, colors, horse, and man,Ran tumbling to the road.
Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry,And his example too,"Run on, my merry men—for why?The shot will not go thro'."
As when two kennels in the street,Swell'd with a recent rain,In gushing streams together meetAnd seek the neighboring drain;
So met these dung-born tribes in one,As swift in their career,And so to Newbridge they ran on—But all the cows got clear.
Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder,Saw the returning train,And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunderFor them to steal again.
For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, andTo share with each commander,As he had done at Staten IslandWith frost-bit Alexander.
In his dismay, the frantic priestBegan to grow prophetic;You'd swore, to see his laboring breast,He'd taken an emetic.
"I view a future day," said he,"Brighter than this dark day is;And you shall see what you shall see,Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!
"And he shall come to Paulus Hook,And great achievements think on;And make a bow and take a look,Like Satan over Lincoln.
"And every one around shall gloryTo see the Frenchman caper;And pretty Susan tell the storyIn the next Chatham paper."
This solemn prophecy, of course,Gave all much consolation,Except to Wayne, who lost his horseUpon that great occasion.
His horse that carried all his prog,His military speeches,His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,Blue stockings and brown breeches.
And now I've clos'd my epic strain,I tremble as I show it,Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,Should ever catch the poet.
John André.
The last stanza was singularly prophetic. The Americans relied for the defence of the Hudson upon the impregnable position at West Point, to the command of which Benedict Arnold had been appointed in July, 1780. Arnold, one of the most brilliant officers in the army, had been treated with great injustice by Congress, and to revengehimself determined to betray West Point into the hands of the British. He therefore opened communication with Clinton, and on September 21 Major André was sent to confer with the traitor. While returning to the British lines the following night, he was captured by an American outpost, who searched him, discovered the papers giving the details of the plot, and took him back to the American lines, refusing his offers of reward for his release.
The last stanza was singularly prophetic. The Americans relied for the defence of the Hudson upon the impregnable position at West Point, to the command of which Benedict Arnold had been appointed in July, 1780. Arnold, one of the most brilliant officers in the army, had been treated with great injustice by Congress, and to revengehimself determined to betray West Point into the hands of the British. He therefore opened communication with Clinton, and on September 21 Major André was sent to confer with the traitor. While returning to the British lines the following night, he was captured by an American outpost, who searched him, discovered the papers giving the details of the plot, and took him back to the American lines, refusing his offers of reward for his release.
BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY
[September 23, 1780]
Come all you brave Americans,And unto me give ear,And I'll sing you a dittyThat will your spirits cheer,Concerning a young gentlemanWhose age was twenty-two;He fought for North America,His heart was just and true.They took him from his dwelling,And they did him confine,They cast him into prison,And kept him there a time.But he with resolutionResolv'd not long to stay;He set himself at liberty,And soon he ran away.He with a scouting-partyWent down to Tarrytown,Where he met a British officer,A man of high renown,Who says unto these gentlemen,"You're of the British cheer,I trust that you can tell meIf there's any danger near?"Then up stept this young hero,John Pauldingwas his name,"Sir, tell us where you're going,And, also, whence you came?""I bear the British flag, sir;I've a pass to go this way,I'm on an expedition,And have no time to stay."Then round him came this company,And bid him to dismount;"Come, tell us where you're going,Give us a strict account;For we are now resolvèdThat you shall ne'er pass by."Upon examinationThey found he was a spy.He beggèd for his liberty,He plead for his discharge,And oftentimes he told them,If they'd set him at large,"Here's all the gold and silverI have laid up in store,But when I reach the city,I'll give you ten times more.""I scorn the gold and silverYou have laid up in store,And when you get to New York,You need not send us more;But you may take your sword in handTo gain your liberty,And if that you do conquer me,Oh, then you shall be free.""The time it is improperOur valor for to try,For if we take our swords in hand,Then one of us must die;I am a man of honor,With courage true and bold,And I fear not the man of clay,Although he's cloth'd in gold."He saw that his conspiracyWould soon be brought to light;He begg'd for pen and paper,And askèd leave to writeA line to General Arnold,To let him know his fate,And beg for his assistance;But now it was too late.When the news it came to Arnold,It put him in a fret;He walk'd the room in trouble,Till tears his cheek did wet;The story soon went through the camp,And also through the fort;And he callèd for the VultureAnd sailèd for New York.Now Arnold to New York has gone,A-fighting for his king,And left poor Major AndréOn the gallows for to swing;When he was executed,He look'd both meek and mild;He look'd upon the people,And pleasantly he smil'd.It mov'd each eye with pity,Caus'd every heart to bleed,And every one wished him releas'dAnd Arnold in his stead.He was a man of honor,In Britain he was born;To die upon the gallowsMost highly he did scorn.A bumper to John Paulding!Now let your voices sound,Fill up your flowing glasses,And drink his health around;Also to those young gentlemenWho bore him company;Success to North America,Ye sons of liberty!
Come all you brave Americans,And unto me give ear,And I'll sing you a dittyThat will your spirits cheer,Concerning a young gentlemanWhose age was twenty-two;He fought for North America,His heart was just and true.They took him from his dwelling,And they did him confine,They cast him into prison,And kept him there a time.But he with resolutionResolv'd not long to stay;He set himself at liberty,And soon he ran away.He with a scouting-partyWent down to Tarrytown,Where he met a British officer,A man of high renown,Who says unto these gentlemen,"You're of the British cheer,I trust that you can tell meIf there's any danger near?"Then up stept this young hero,John Pauldingwas his name,"Sir, tell us where you're going,And, also, whence you came?""I bear the British flag, sir;I've a pass to go this way,I'm on an expedition,And have no time to stay."Then round him came this company,And bid him to dismount;"Come, tell us where you're going,Give us a strict account;For we are now resolvèdThat you shall ne'er pass by."Upon examinationThey found he was a spy.He beggèd for his liberty,He plead for his discharge,And oftentimes he told them,If they'd set him at large,"Here's all the gold and silverI have laid up in store,But when I reach the city,I'll give you ten times more.""I scorn the gold and silverYou have laid up in store,And when you get to New York,You need not send us more;But you may take your sword in handTo gain your liberty,And if that you do conquer me,Oh, then you shall be free.""The time it is improperOur valor for to try,For if we take our swords in hand,Then one of us must die;I am a man of honor,With courage true and bold,And I fear not the man of clay,Although he's cloth'd in gold."He saw that his conspiracyWould soon be brought to light;He begg'd for pen and paper,And askèd leave to writeA line to General Arnold,To let him know his fate,And beg for his assistance;But now it was too late.When the news it came to Arnold,It put him in a fret;He walk'd the room in trouble,Till tears his cheek did wet;The story soon went through the camp,And also through the fort;And he callèd for the VultureAnd sailèd for New York.Now Arnold to New York has gone,A-fighting for his king,And left poor Major AndréOn the gallows for to swing;When he was executed,He look'd both meek and mild;He look'd upon the people,And pleasantly he smil'd.It mov'd each eye with pity,Caus'd every heart to bleed,And every one wished him releas'dAnd Arnold in his stead.He was a man of honor,In Britain he was born;To die upon the gallowsMost highly he did scorn.A bumper to John Paulding!Now let your voices sound,Fill up your flowing glasses,And drink his health around;Also to those young gentlemenWho bore him company;Success to North America,Ye sons of liberty!
Come all you brave Americans,And unto me give ear,And I'll sing you a dittyThat will your spirits cheer,Concerning a young gentlemanWhose age was twenty-two;He fought for North America,His heart was just and true.
They took him from his dwelling,And they did him confine,They cast him into prison,And kept him there a time.But he with resolutionResolv'd not long to stay;He set himself at liberty,And soon he ran away.
He with a scouting-partyWent down to Tarrytown,Where he met a British officer,A man of high renown,Who says unto these gentlemen,"You're of the British cheer,I trust that you can tell meIf there's any danger near?"
Then up stept this young hero,John Pauldingwas his name,"Sir, tell us where you're going,And, also, whence you came?""I bear the British flag, sir;I've a pass to go this way,I'm on an expedition,And have no time to stay."
Then round him came this company,And bid him to dismount;"Come, tell us where you're going,Give us a strict account;For we are now resolvèdThat you shall ne'er pass by."Upon examinationThey found he was a spy.
He beggèd for his liberty,He plead for his discharge,And oftentimes he told them,If they'd set him at large,"Here's all the gold and silverI have laid up in store,But when I reach the city,I'll give you ten times more."
"I scorn the gold and silverYou have laid up in store,And when you get to New York,You need not send us more;But you may take your sword in handTo gain your liberty,And if that you do conquer me,Oh, then you shall be free."
"The time it is improperOur valor for to try,For if we take our swords in hand,Then one of us must die;I am a man of honor,With courage true and bold,And I fear not the man of clay,Although he's cloth'd in gold."
He saw that his conspiracyWould soon be brought to light;He begg'd for pen and paper,And askèd leave to writeA line to General Arnold,To let him know his fate,And beg for his assistance;But now it was too late.
When the news it came to Arnold,It put him in a fret;He walk'd the room in trouble,Till tears his cheek did wet;The story soon went through the camp,And also through the fort;And he callèd for the VultureAnd sailèd for New York.
Now Arnold to New York has gone,A-fighting for his king,And left poor Major AndréOn the gallows for to swing;When he was executed,He look'd both meek and mild;He look'd upon the people,And pleasantly he smil'd.
It mov'd each eye with pity,Caus'd every heart to bleed,And every one wished him releas'dAnd Arnold in his stead.He was a man of honor,In Britain he was born;To die upon the gallowsMost highly he did scorn.
A bumper to John Paulding!Now let your voices sound,Fill up your flowing glasses,And drink his health around;Also to those young gentlemenWho bore him company;Success to North America,Ye sons of liberty!
Arnold learned of André's capture just in time to escape to a British ship in the river, and Washington, arriving soon after, prevented his treacherous disposition of the American forces from being taken advantage of by the enemy.
Arnold learned of André's capture just in time to escape to a British ship in the river, and Washington, arriving soon after, prevented his treacherous disposition of the American forces from being taken advantage of by the enemy.
ARNOLD
THE VILE TRAITOR
[September 25, 1780]
Arnold! the name, as heretofore,Shall now be Benedict no more:Since, instigated by the devil,Thy ways are turned from good to evil.'Tis fit we brand thee with a nameTo suit thy infamy and shame;And, since of treason thou'rt convicted,Thy name shall be maledicted.Unless, by way of contradiction,We style thee Britain's Benediction.Such blessings she, with lavish hand,Confers on this devoted land.For instance, only let us mentionSome proof of her benign intention;The slaves she sends us o'er the deep,And bribes to cut our throats in sleep.To take our lives and scalps away,The savage Indians keeps in pay,And Tories worse, by half, than they.Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,—The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,—Recorded Arnold's name shall stand,While Freedom's blessings crown our land,And odious for the blackest crimes,Arnold shall stink to latest times.
Arnold! the name, as heretofore,Shall now be Benedict no more:Since, instigated by the devil,Thy ways are turned from good to evil.'Tis fit we brand thee with a nameTo suit thy infamy and shame;And, since of treason thou'rt convicted,Thy name shall be maledicted.Unless, by way of contradiction,We style thee Britain's Benediction.Such blessings she, with lavish hand,Confers on this devoted land.For instance, only let us mentionSome proof of her benign intention;The slaves she sends us o'er the deep,And bribes to cut our throats in sleep.To take our lives and scalps away,The savage Indians keeps in pay,And Tories worse, by half, than they.Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,—The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,—Recorded Arnold's name shall stand,While Freedom's blessings crown our land,And odious for the blackest crimes,Arnold shall stink to latest times.
Arnold! the name, as heretofore,Shall now be Benedict no more:Since, instigated by the devil,Thy ways are turned from good to evil.
'Tis fit we brand thee with a nameTo suit thy infamy and shame;And, since of treason thou'rt convicted,Thy name shall be maledicted.Unless, by way of contradiction,We style thee Britain's Benediction.Such blessings she, with lavish hand,Confers on this devoted land.
For instance, only let us mentionSome proof of her benign intention;The slaves she sends us o'er the deep,And bribes to cut our throats in sleep.To take our lives and scalps away,The savage Indians keeps in pay,And Tories worse, by half, than they.
Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,—The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,—Recorded Arnold's name shall stand,While Freedom's blessings crown our land,And odious for the blackest crimes,Arnold shall stink to latest times.
EPIGRAM
Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow,I love you much better than ever I did;You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,—But mind that you both do just what I bid."Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me!I will strictly adhere to all your great views;To you I'm devoted, with all things about me—You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."New Jersey Gazette, November 1, 1780.
Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow,I love you much better than ever I did;You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,—But mind that you both do just what I bid."Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me!I will strictly adhere to all your great views;To you I'm devoted, with all things about me—You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."New Jersey Gazette, November 1, 1780.
Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow,I love you much better than ever I did;You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,—But mind that you both do just what I bid."
Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me!I will strictly adhere to all your great views;To you I'm devoted, with all things about me—You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."
New Jersey Gazette, November 1, 1780.
André was tried by court-martial September 29, and condemned to be hanged as a spy. Clinton, with whom André was a warm personal favorite, made a desperate effort to save him, but in vain; and a petition from André himself that he might be shot instead of hanged was also rejected.
André was tried by court-martial September 29, and condemned to be hanged as a spy. Clinton, with whom André was a warm personal favorite, made a desperate effort to save him, but in vain; and a petition from André himself that he might be shot instead of hanged was also rejected.
ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON
[October 1, 1780]
It is not the fear of deathThat damps my brow,It is not for another breathI ask thee now;I can die with a lip unstirr'dAnd a quiet heart—Let but this prayer be heardEre I depart.I can give up my mother's look—My sister's kiss;I can think of love—yet brookA death like this!I can give up the young fameI burn'd to win—All—but the spotless nameI glory in.Thine is the power to give,Thine to deny,Joy for the hour I live—Calmness to die.By all the brave should cherish,By my dying breath,I ask that I may perishBy a soldier's death!Nathaniel Parker Willis.
It is not the fear of deathThat damps my brow,It is not for another breathI ask thee now;I can die with a lip unstirr'dAnd a quiet heart—Let but this prayer be heardEre I depart.I can give up my mother's look—My sister's kiss;I can think of love—yet brookA death like this!I can give up the young fameI burn'd to win—All—but the spotless nameI glory in.Thine is the power to give,Thine to deny,Joy for the hour I live—Calmness to die.By all the brave should cherish,By my dying breath,I ask that I may perishBy a soldier's death!Nathaniel Parker Willis.
It is not the fear of deathThat damps my brow,It is not for another breathI ask thee now;I can die with a lip unstirr'dAnd a quiet heart—Let but this prayer be heardEre I depart.
I can give up my mother's look—My sister's kiss;I can think of love—yet brookA death like this!I can give up the young fameI burn'd to win—All—but the spotless nameI glory in.
Thine is the power to give,Thine to deny,Joy for the hour I live—Calmness to die.By all the brave should cherish,By my dying breath,I ask that I may perishBy a soldier's death!
Nathaniel Parker Willis.
Accordingly, on Monday, October 2, 1780, the adjutant-general of the British army was led to the gallows, and shared the fate which had befallen Nathan Hale four years before.
Accordingly, on Monday, October 2, 1780, the adjutant-general of the British army was led to the gallows, and shared the fate which had befallen Nathan Hale four years before.
ANDRÉ
This is the place where André met that deathWhose infamy was keenest of its throes,And in this place of bravely yielded breathHis ashes found a fifty years' repose;And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,With those who have been kings in blood or fame,As Honor here some compensation gaveFor that once forfeit to a hero's name.But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayedThe loving pity and regret they bore.In view of all he lost,—his youth, his love,And possibilities that wait the brave,Inward and outward bound, dim visions moveLike passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.The country's Father! how do we revereHis justice,—Brutus-like in its decree,—With André-sparing mercy, still more dearHad been his name,—if that, indeed, could be!Charlotte Fiske Bates.
This is the place where André met that deathWhose infamy was keenest of its throes,And in this place of bravely yielded breathHis ashes found a fifty years' repose;And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,With those who have been kings in blood or fame,As Honor here some compensation gaveFor that once forfeit to a hero's name.But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayedThe loving pity and regret they bore.In view of all he lost,—his youth, his love,And possibilities that wait the brave,Inward and outward bound, dim visions moveLike passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.The country's Father! how do we revereHis justice,—Brutus-like in its decree,—With André-sparing mercy, still more dearHad been his name,—if that, indeed, could be!Charlotte Fiske Bates.
This is the place where André met that deathWhose infamy was keenest of its throes,And in this place of bravely yielded breathHis ashes found a fifty years' repose;
And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,With those who have been kings in blood or fame,As Honor here some compensation gaveFor that once forfeit to a hero's name.
But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayedThe loving pity and regret they bore.
In view of all he lost,—his youth, his love,And possibilities that wait the brave,Inward and outward bound, dim visions moveLike passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.
The country's Father! how do we revereHis justice,—Brutus-like in its decree,—With André-sparing mercy, still more dearHad been his name,—if that, indeed, could be!
Charlotte Fiske Bates.
But Arnold, the chief offender, had escaped, and a plan was set on foot to abduct him from the midst of the British and bring him back to the American lines. The execution of this plot was intrusted to John Champe, a sergeant-major in Lee's cavalry. On the night of October 20, Champe mounted his horse and seemingly deserted to the British, escaping a hot pursuit. He gained Arnold's confidence, and made every arrangement to abduct him, but was foiled at the last moment by Arnold's embarkation on an expedition to the south.
But Arnold, the chief offender, had escaped, and a plan was set on foot to abduct him from the midst of the British and bring him back to the American lines. The execution of this plot was intrusted to John Champe, a sergeant-major in Lee's cavalry. On the night of October 20, Champe mounted his horse and seemingly deserted to the British, escaping a hot pursuit. He gained Arnold's confidence, and made every arrangement to abduct him, but was foiled at the last moment by Arnold's embarkation on an expedition to the south.
SERGEANT CHAMPE
[October 20, 1780]
Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys,And listen to the story,How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night,Set off to catch the Tory.You see the general had got madTo think his plans were thwarted,And swore by all, both good and bad,That Arnold should be carted.So unto Lee he sent a line,And told him all his sorrow,And said that he must start the huntBefore the coming morrow.Lee found a sergeant in his camp,Made up of bone and muscle,Who ne'er knew fear, and many a yearWith Tories had a tussle.Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip,All button'd up from weather,Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip,And soon was in the heather.He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook,Improving every instant—Until a patrol, wide awake,Descried him in the distance.On coming up, the guard call'd outAnd asked him where he's going—To which he answer'd with his spur,And left him in the mowing.The bushes pass'd him like the wind,And pebbles flew asunder,The guard was left far, far behind,All mix'd with mud and wonder.Lee's troops paraded, all alive,Although 'twas one the morning,And counting o'er a dozen or more,One sergeant is found wanting.A little hero, full of spunk,But not so full of judgment,Press'd Major Lee to let him go,With the bravest of his reg'ment.Lee summon'd cornet Middleton,Expressèd what was urgent,And gave him orders how to goTo catch the rambling sergeant.Then forty troopers, more or less,Set off across the meader;'Bout thirty-nine went jogging onA-following their leader.At early morn, adown a hill,They saw the sergeant sliding;So fast he went, it was not ken'tWhether he's rode, or riding.None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd,A-gaining every minute.To see them go, 'twould done you good,You'd thought old Satan in it.The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck,And took another tracing,He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook,Elizabethtown facing.It was the custom ofSir HalTo send his galleys cruising,And so it happenèd just thenThat two were at Van Deusen's.Strait unto these the sergeant went,And left old Rip, all standing,A-waiting for the blown cornet,At Squire Van Deusen's landing.The troopers didn't gallop home,But rested from their labors;And some 'tis said took gingerbreadAnd cider from the neighbors.'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'dThe camp they left that morning.Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee,Gave an unwelcome warning."If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;"So thought the generous major;"I would not have his garment touch'dFor millions on a wager!"The cornet told him all he knew,Excepting of the cider.The troopers, all, spurred very well,But Champe was the best rider!And so it happen'd that brave ChampeUnto Sir Hal deserted,Deceiving him, and you, and me,And into York was flirted.He saw base Arnold in his camp,Surrounded by the legion,And told him of the recent prankThat threw him in that region.Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands,And e'enmost choked with pleasure,Not thinking Champe was all the whileA "taking of his measure.""Come now," says he, "my bold soldier,As you're within our borders,Let's drink our fill, old care to kill,To-morrow you'll have orders."Full soon the British fleet set sail!Say! wasn't that a pity?For thus it was brave Sergeant ChampeWas taken from the city.To southern climes the shipping flew,And anchored in Virginia,When Champe escaped and join'd his friendsAmong the picininni.Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd,Poor André was gibbeted;Arnold's to blame for André's fame,And André's to be pitied.
Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys,And listen to the story,How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night,Set off to catch the Tory.You see the general had got madTo think his plans were thwarted,And swore by all, both good and bad,That Arnold should be carted.So unto Lee he sent a line,And told him all his sorrow,And said that he must start the huntBefore the coming morrow.Lee found a sergeant in his camp,Made up of bone and muscle,Who ne'er knew fear, and many a yearWith Tories had a tussle.Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip,All button'd up from weather,Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip,And soon was in the heather.He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook,Improving every instant—Until a patrol, wide awake,Descried him in the distance.On coming up, the guard call'd outAnd asked him where he's going—To which he answer'd with his spur,And left him in the mowing.The bushes pass'd him like the wind,And pebbles flew asunder,The guard was left far, far behind,All mix'd with mud and wonder.Lee's troops paraded, all alive,Although 'twas one the morning,And counting o'er a dozen or more,One sergeant is found wanting.A little hero, full of spunk,But not so full of judgment,Press'd Major Lee to let him go,With the bravest of his reg'ment.Lee summon'd cornet Middleton,Expressèd what was urgent,And gave him orders how to goTo catch the rambling sergeant.Then forty troopers, more or less,Set off across the meader;'Bout thirty-nine went jogging onA-following their leader.At early morn, adown a hill,They saw the sergeant sliding;So fast he went, it was not ken'tWhether he's rode, or riding.None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd,A-gaining every minute.To see them go, 'twould done you good,You'd thought old Satan in it.The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck,And took another tracing,He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook,Elizabethtown facing.It was the custom ofSir HalTo send his galleys cruising,And so it happenèd just thenThat two were at Van Deusen's.Strait unto these the sergeant went,And left old Rip, all standing,A-waiting for the blown cornet,At Squire Van Deusen's landing.The troopers didn't gallop home,But rested from their labors;And some 'tis said took gingerbreadAnd cider from the neighbors.'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'dThe camp they left that morning.Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee,Gave an unwelcome warning."If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;"So thought the generous major;"I would not have his garment touch'dFor millions on a wager!"The cornet told him all he knew,Excepting of the cider.The troopers, all, spurred very well,But Champe was the best rider!And so it happen'd that brave ChampeUnto Sir Hal deserted,Deceiving him, and you, and me,And into York was flirted.He saw base Arnold in his camp,Surrounded by the legion,And told him of the recent prankThat threw him in that region.Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands,And e'enmost choked with pleasure,Not thinking Champe was all the whileA "taking of his measure.""Come now," says he, "my bold soldier,As you're within our borders,Let's drink our fill, old care to kill,To-morrow you'll have orders."Full soon the British fleet set sail!Say! wasn't that a pity?For thus it was brave Sergeant ChampeWas taken from the city.To southern climes the shipping flew,And anchored in Virginia,When Champe escaped and join'd his friendsAmong the picininni.Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd,Poor André was gibbeted;Arnold's to blame for André's fame,And André's to be pitied.
Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys,And listen to the story,How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night,Set off to catch the Tory.
You see the general had got madTo think his plans were thwarted,And swore by all, both good and bad,That Arnold should be carted.
So unto Lee he sent a line,And told him all his sorrow,And said that he must start the huntBefore the coming morrow.
Lee found a sergeant in his camp,Made up of bone and muscle,Who ne'er knew fear, and many a yearWith Tories had a tussle.
Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip,All button'd up from weather,Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip,And soon was in the heather.
He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook,Improving every instant—Until a patrol, wide awake,Descried him in the distance.
On coming up, the guard call'd outAnd asked him where he's going—To which he answer'd with his spur,And left him in the mowing.
The bushes pass'd him like the wind,And pebbles flew asunder,The guard was left far, far behind,All mix'd with mud and wonder.
Lee's troops paraded, all alive,Although 'twas one the morning,And counting o'er a dozen or more,One sergeant is found wanting.
A little hero, full of spunk,But not so full of judgment,Press'd Major Lee to let him go,With the bravest of his reg'ment.
Lee summon'd cornet Middleton,Expressèd what was urgent,And gave him orders how to goTo catch the rambling sergeant.
Then forty troopers, more or less,Set off across the meader;'Bout thirty-nine went jogging onA-following their leader.
At early morn, adown a hill,They saw the sergeant sliding;So fast he went, it was not ken'tWhether he's rode, or riding.
None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd,A-gaining every minute.To see them go, 'twould done you good,You'd thought old Satan in it.
The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck,And took another tracing,He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook,Elizabethtown facing.
It was the custom ofSir HalTo send his galleys cruising,And so it happenèd just thenThat two were at Van Deusen's.
Strait unto these the sergeant went,And left old Rip, all standing,A-waiting for the blown cornet,At Squire Van Deusen's landing.
The troopers didn't gallop home,But rested from their labors;And some 'tis said took gingerbreadAnd cider from the neighbors.
'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'dThe camp they left that morning.Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee,Gave an unwelcome warning.
"If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;"So thought the generous major;"I would not have his garment touch'dFor millions on a wager!"
The cornet told him all he knew,Excepting of the cider.The troopers, all, spurred very well,But Champe was the best rider!
And so it happen'd that brave ChampeUnto Sir Hal deserted,Deceiving him, and you, and me,And into York was flirted.
He saw base Arnold in his camp,Surrounded by the legion,And told him of the recent prankThat threw him in that region.
Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands,And e'enmost choked with pleasure,Not thinking Champe was all the whileA "taking of his measure."
"Come now," says he, "my bold soldier,As you're within our borders,Let's drink our fill, old care to kill,To-morrow you'll have orders."
Full soon the British fleet set sail!Say! wasn't that a pity?For thus it was brave Sergeant ChampeWas taken from the city.
To southern climes the shipping flew,And anchored in Virginia,When Champe escaped and join'd his friendsAmong the picininni.
Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd,Poor André was gibbeted;Arnold's to blame for André's fame,And André's to be pitied.
After the flurry consequent upon André's capture and execution, affairs at New York settled back into the old routine. A sort of lethargy seemed to possess the British leaders, and the Americans grew bolder and bolder, sometimes pushing their foraging expeditions within the British lines, and on one occasion seizing a quantity of hay and setting fire to some houses within sight of Clinton's quarters. The next day, the Loyalist disgust was voiced in some verses written by Joseph Stansbury and stuck up about the town.
After the flurry consequent upon André's capture and execution, affairs at New York settled back into the old routine. A sort of lethargy seemed to possess the British leaders, and the Americans grew bolder and bolder, sometimes pushing their foraging expeditions within the British lines, and on one occasion seizing a quantity of hay and setting fire to some houses within sight of Clinton's quarters. The next day, the Loyalist disgust was voiced in some verses written by Joseph Stansbury and stuck up about the town.
A NEW SONG
[1780]