O'er Huron's wave the sun was low,The weary soldier watch'd the bowFast fading from the cloud belowThe dashing of Niagara.And while the phantom chain'd his sight,Ah! little thought he of the fight—The horrors of the dreamless night,That posted on so rapidly.Soon, soon is fled each softer charm;The drum and trumpet sound alarm,And bid each warrior nerve his armFor boldest deeds of chivalry;The burning red-cross, waving high,Like meteor in the evening sky,Proclaims the haughty foemen nighTo try the strife of rivalry.Columbia's banner floats as proud,Her gallant band around it crowd,And swear to guard or make their shroudThe starred flag of liberty."Haste, haste thee, Scott, to meet the foe,And let the scornful Briton know,Well strung the arm and firm the blowOf him who strikes for liberty."Loud, loud, the din of battle rings,Shrill through the ranks the bullet sings,And onward fierce each foeman springsTo meet his peer in gallantry.Behind the hills descends the sun,The work of death is but begun,And red through twilight's shadows dunBlazes the vollied musketry."Charge, Miller, charge the foe once more,"And louder than Niagara's roarAlong the line is heard, encore,"On, on to death or victory."From line to line, with lurid glow,High arching shoots the rocket's bow,And lights the mingled scene belowOf carnage, death, and misery.The middle watch has now begun,The horrid battle-fray is done,No longer beats the furious drum,To death, to death or victory.All, all is still—with silent treadThe watchman steals among the dead,To guard his comrade's lowly bed,Till morning give him sepulture.Low in the west, of splendor shorn,The midnight moon with bloody hornSheds her last beam on him, forlorn,Who fell in fight so gloriously;Oh! long her crescent wax and waneEre she behold such fray again,Such dismal night, such heaps of slain,Foe mix'd with foe promiscuously.
O'er Huron's wave the sun was low,The weary soldier watch'd the bowFast fading from the cloud belowThe dashing of Niagara.And while the phantom chain'd his sight,Ah! little thought he of the fight—The horrors of the dreamless night,That posted on so rapidly.Soon, soon is fled each softer charm;The drum and trumpet sound alarm,And bid each warrior nerve his armFor boldest deeds of chivalry;The burning red-cross, waving high,Like meteor in the evening sky,Proclaims the haughty foemen nighTo try the strife of rivalry.Columbia's banner floats as proud,Her gallant band around it crowd,And swear to guard or make their shroudThe starred flag of liberty."Haste, haste thee, Scott, to meet the foe,And let the scornful Briton know,Well strung the arm and firm the blowOf him who strikes for liberty."Loud, loud, the din of battle rings,Shrill through the ranks the bullet sings,And onward fierce each foeman springsTo meet his peer in gallantry.Behind the hills descends the sun,The work of death is but begun,And red through twilight's shadows dunBlazes the vollied musketry."Charge, Miller, charge the foe once more,"And louder than Niagara's roarAlong the line is heard, encore,"On, on to death or victory."From line to line, with lurid glow,High arching shoots the rocket's bow,And lights the mingled scene belowOf carnage, death, and misery.The middle watch has now begun,The horrid battle-fray is done,No longer beats the furious drum,To death, to death or victory.All, all is still—with silent treadThe watchman steals among the dead,To guard his comrade's lowly bed,Till morning give him sepulture.Low in the west, of splendor shorn,The midnight moon with bloody hornSheds her last beam on him, forlorn,Who fell in fight so gloriously;Oh! long her crescent wax and waneEre she behold such fray again,Such dismal night, such heaps of slain,Foe mix'd with foe promiscuously.
O'er Huron's wave the sun was low,The weary soldier watch'd the bowFast fading from the cloud belowThe dashing of Niagara.And while the phantom chain'd his sight,Ah! little thought he of the fight—The horrors of the dreamless night,That posted on so rapidly.
Soon, soon is fled each softer charm;The drum and trumpet sound alarm,And bid each warrior nerve his armFor boldest deeds of chivalry;The burning red-cross, waving high,Like meteor in the evening sky,Proclaims the haughty foemen nighTo try the strife of rivalry.
Columbia's banner floats as proud,Her gallant band around it crowd,And swear to guard or make their shroudThe starred flag of liberty."Haste, haste thee, Scott, to meet the foe,And let the scornful Briton know,Well strung the arm and firm the blowOf him who strikes for liberty."
Loud, loud, the din of battle rings,Shrill through the ranks the bullet sings,And onward fierce each foeman springsTo meet his peer in gallantry.Behind the hills descends the sun,The work of death is but begun,And red through twilight's shadows dunBlazes the vollied musketry.
"Charge, Miller, charge the foe once more,"And louder than Niagara's roarAlong the line is heard, encore,"On, on to death or victory."From line to line, with lurid glow,High arching shoots the rocket's bow,And lights the mingled scene belowOf carnage, death, and misery.
The middle watch has now begun,The horrid battle-fray is done,No longer beats the furious drum,To death, to death or victory.All, all is still—with silent treadThe watchman steals among the dead,To guard his comrade's lowly bed,Till morning give him sepulture.
Low in the west, of splendor shorn,The midnight moon with bloody hornSheds her last beam on him, forlorn,Who fell in fight so gloriously;Oh! long her crescent wax and waneEre she behold such fray again,Such dismal night, such heaps of slain,Foe mix'd with foe promiscuously.
Colonel Winfield Scott commanded a battalion at this battle, and by a series of desperate charges drove the British from the field. But so shaken was the American army that it was compelled to retreat to camp, after spending the night upon the conquered ground.
Colonel Winfield Scott commanded a battalion at this battle, and by a series of desperate charges drove the British from the field. But so shaken was the American army that it was compelled to retreat to camp, after spending the night upon the conquered ground.
THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER
[July 25, 1814]
Seize, O seize the sounding lyre,With its quivering string!Strike the chords, in ecstasy,Whilst loud the valleys ring!Sing the chief, who, gloriously,From England's veteran band,Pluck'd the wreaths of victory,To grace his native land!Where Bridgewater's war-famed streamSaw the foemen reel,Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleamOf bayonet, knife, and steel;And its crimson'd waters runRed with gurgling flow,As Albion's gathering hosts his arm,His mighty arm, laid low.Strike the sounding string of fame,O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums!Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name!Behold the hero comes!I see Columbia, joyously,Her palmy circlet throwAround his high victorious browWho laid her foemen low!Take him, Fame! for thine he is!On silvery columns, rearThe name of Scott, whence envious TimeShall ne'er its honors tear!And thou, O Albion, quake with dread!Ye veterans shrink, the while,Whene'er his glorious name shall soundTo shake your sea-girt isle!Charles L. S. Jones.
Seize, O seize the sounding lyre,With its quivering string!Strike the chords, in ecstasy,Whilst loud the valleys ring!Sing the chief, who, gloriously,From England's veteran band,Pluck'd the wreaths of victory,To grace his native land!Where Bridgewater's war-famed streamSaw the foemen reel,Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleamOf bayonet, knife, and steel;And its crimson'd waters runRed with gurgling flow,As Albion's gathering hosts his arm,His mighty arm, laid low.Strike the sounding string of fame,O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums!Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name!Behold the hero comes!I see Columbia, joyously,Her palmy circlet throwAround his high victorious browWho laid her foemen low!Take him, Fame! for thine he is!On silvery columns, rearThe name of Scott, whence envious TimeShall ne'er its honors tear!And thou, O Albion, quake with dread!Ye veterans shrink, the while,Whene'er his glorious name shall soundTo shake your sea-girt isle!Charles L. S. Jones.
Seize, O seize the sounding lyre,With its quivering string!Strike the chords, in ecstasy,Whilst loud the valleys ring!Sing the chief, who, gloriously,From England's veteran band,Pluck'd the wreaths of victory,To grace his native land!
Where Bridgewater's war-famed streamSaw the foemen reel,Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleamOf bayonet, knife, and steel;And its crimson'd waters runRed with gurgling flow,As Albion's gathering hosts his arm,His mighty arm, laid low.
Strike the sounding string of fame,O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums!Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name!Behold the hero comes!I see Columbia, joyously,Her palmy circlet throwAround his high victorious browWho laid her foemen low!
Take him, Fame! for thine he is!On silvery columns, rearThe name of Scott, whence envious TimeShall ne'er its honors tear!And thou, O Albion, quake with dread!Ye veterans shrink, the while,Whene'er his glorious name shall soundTo shake your sea-girt isle!
Charles L. S. Jones.
The British, meanwhile, had extended their blockade to the whole coast of the United States, and were ordered to "destroy and lay waste all towns and districts of the United States found accessive to the attack of the British armaments." In pursuance of these orders, town after town along the coast was bombarded and burned. On August 9, 1814, a squadron descended on the little village of Stonington, but met a warm reception.
The British, meanwhile, had extended their blockade to the whole coast of the United States, and were ordered to "destroy and lay waste all towns and districts of the United States found accessive to the attack of the British armaments." In pursuance of these orders, town after town along the coast was bombarded and burned. On August 9, 1814, a squadron descended on the little village of Stonington, but met a warm reception.
THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT
[August 9-12, 1814]
Four gallant shipsfrom England cameFreighted deep with fire and flame,And other things we need not name,To have a dash at Stonington.Now safely moor'd, their work begun;They thought to make the Yankees run,And have a mighty deal of funIn stealing sheep at Stonington.A deacon then popp'd up his head,And parson Jones's sermon read,In which the reverend doctor saidThat they must fight for Stonington.A townsman bade them, next, attendTo sundry resolutions penn'd,By which they promised to defendWith sword and gun old Stonington.The ships advancing different ways,The Britons soon began to blaze,And put th' old women in amaze,Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.The Yankees to their fort repair'd,And made as though they little caredFor all that came—though very hardThe cannon play'd on Stonington.The Ramillies began the attack,Despatch came forward—bold and black—And none can tell what kept them backFrom setting fire to Stonington.The bombardiers with bomb and ball,Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,And did a cow-house sadly maulThat stood a mile from Stonington.They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,Three hogs they wounded in a pen—They dash'd away, and pray what then?This was not taking Stonington.The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,But not a shell, of all they threw,Though every house was full in view,Could burn a house at Stonington.To have their turn they thought but fair;—The Yankees brought two guns to bear,And, sir, it would have made you stare,This smoke of smokes at Stonington.They bored Pactolus through and through,And kill'd and wounded of her crewSo many, that she bade adieuT' the gallant boys of Stonington.The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn—So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,No more she cast an eye of scornOn the little fort at Stonington.The Ramillies gave up th' affray,And, with her comrades, sneak'd away,Such was the valor, on that day,Of British tars near Stonington.But some assert, on certain grounds(Besides the damage and the wounds),It cost the king ten thousand poundsTo have a dash at Stonington.Philip Freneau.
Four gallant shipsfrom England cameFreighted deep with fire and flame,And other things we need not name,To have a dash at Stonington.Now safely moor'd, their work begun;They thought to make the Yankees run,And have a mighty deal of funIn stealing sheep at Stonington.A deacon then popp'd up his head,And parson Jones's sermon read,In which the reverend doctor saidThat they must fight for Stonington.A townsman bade them, next, attendTo sundry resolutions penn'd,By which they promised to defendWith sword and gun old Stonington.The ships advancing different ways,The Britons soon began to blaze,And put th' old women in amaze,Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.The Yankees to their fort repair'd,And made as though they little caredFor all that came—though very hardThe cannon play'd on Stonington.The Ramillies began the attack,Despatch came forward—bold and black—And none can tell what kept them backFrom setting fire to Stonington.The bombardiers with bomb and ball,Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,And did a cow-house sadly maulThat stood a mile from Stonington.They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,Three hogs they wounded in a pen—They dash'd away, and pray what then?This was not taking Stonington.The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,But not a shell, of all they threw,Though every house was full in view,Could burn a house at Stonington.To have their turn they thought but fair;—The Yankees brought two guns to bear,And, sir, it would have made you stare,This smoke of smokes at Stonington.They bored Pactolus through and through,And kill'd and wounded of her crewSo many, that she bade adieuT' the gallant boys of Stonington.The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn—So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,No more she cast an eye of scornOn the little fort at Stonington.The Ramillies gave up th' affray,And, with her comrades, sneak'd away,Such was the valor, on that day,Of British tars near Stonington.But some assert, on certain grounds(Besides the damage and the wounds),It cost the king ten thousand poundsTo have a dash at Stonington.Philip Freneau.
Four gallant shipsfrom England cameFreighted deep with fire and flame,And other things we need not name,To have a dash at Stonington.
Now safely moor'd, their work begun;They thought to make the Yankees run,And have a mighty deal of funIn stealing sheep at Stonington.
A deacon then popp'd up his head,And parson Jones's sermon read,In which the reverend doctor saidThat they must fight for Stonington.
A townsman bade them, next, attendTo sundry resolutions penn'd,By which they promised to defendWith sword and gun old Stonington.
The ships advancing different ways,The Britons soon began to blaze,And put th' old women in amaze,Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.
The Yankees to their fort repair'd,And made as though they little caredFor all that came—though very hardThe cannon play'd on Stonington.
The Ramillies began the attack,Despatch came forward—bold and black—And none can tell what kept them backFrom setting fire to Stonington.
The bombardiers with bomb and ball,Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,And did a cow-house sadly maulThat stood a mile from Stonington.
They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,Three hogs they wounded in a pen—They dash'd away, and pray what then?This was not taking Stonington.
The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,But not a shell, of all they threw,Though every house was full in view,Could burn a house at Stonington.
To have their turn they thought but fair;—The Yankees brought two guns to bear,And, sir, it would have made you stare,This smoke of smokes at Stonington.
They bored Pactolus through and through,And kill'd and wounded of her crewSo many, that she bade adieuT' the gallant boys of Stonington.
The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn—So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,No more she cast an eye of scornOn the little fort at Stonington.
The Ramillies gave up th' affray,And, with her comrades, sneak'd away,Such was the valor, on that day,Of British tars near Stonington.
But some assert, on certain grounds(Besides the damage and the wounds),It cost the king ten thousand poundsTo have a dash at Stonington.
Philip Freneau.
Occasionally, an American ship would manage to deal a telling blow. The Wasp, cruising in the English Channel, did especially effective work, among her most famous actions being that with the Avon on the night of September 1, 1814, in which, after a spirited fight, the Avon was sunk.
Occasionally, an American ship would manage to deal a telling blow. The Wasp, cruising in the English Channel, did especially effective work, among her most famous actions being that with the Avon on the night of September 1, 1814, in which, after a spirited fight, the Avon was sunk.
THE OCEAN-FIGHT
[September 1, 1814]
The sun had sunk beneath the west,When two proud barks to battle press'd,With swelling sail and streamers dress'd,So gallantly.Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies:Columbia's flag more proudly flies,Her emblem stars of victoriesBeam gloriously.Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed,Have streak'd the sky of bloody red,And now the ensanguined lustre spreadHeaven's canopy.Dread prelude to that awful nightWhen Britain's and Columbia's mightJoin'd in the fierce and bloody fight,Hard rivalry.Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep,Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep:Yet still the barks their courses keepUnerringly.The northern gales more fiercely blow,The white foam dashing o'er the prow;The starry crescent round each bowBeams vividly.Near and more near the war-ships ride,Till, ranged for battle, side by side,Each warrior's heart beats high with prideOf chivalry.'Twas awful, ere the fight begun,To see brave warriors round each gun,While thoughts on home and carnage run,Stand silently.As death-like stillness reigns around,Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound,Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound,Burst furiously.So, bursting from Columbia's prow,Her thunder on the red-cross foe,The lurid cloud's sulphuric glowGlares awfully.Reëchoing peals more fiercely roar,Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore,The foaming waves that raged before,Sink, tremulous.Columbia's last sulphuric blaze,That lights her stripes and starry rays,The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays,Struck fearfully.And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo!Haste, haste and save the sinking foe:Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go,Brave conquerors.Now, honor to the warriors brave,Whose field of fame, the mountain wave,Their corses bear to ocean's cave,Their sepulchre.Their country's pæans swell their praise;And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays,Full many a bard shall chant his lays,Their requiem.
The sun had sunk beneath the west,When two proud barks to battle press'd,With swelling sail and streamers dress'd,So gallantly.Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies:Columbia's flag more proudly flies,Her emblem stars of victoriesBeam gloriously.Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed,Have streak'd the sky of bloody red,And now the ensanguined lustre spreadHeaven's canopy.Dread prelude to that awful nightWhen Britain's and Columbia's mightJoin'd in the fierce and bloody fight,Hard rivalry.Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep,Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep:Yet still the barks their courses keepUnerringly.The northern gales more fiercely blow,The white foam dashing o'er the prow;The starry crescent round each bowBeams vividly.Near and more near the war-ships ride,Till, ranged for battle, side by side,Each warrior's heart beats high with prideOf chivalry.'Twas awful, ere the fight begun,To see brave warriors round each gun,While thoughts on home and carnage run,Stand silently.As death-like stillness reigns around,Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound,Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound,Burst furiously.So, bursting from Columbia's prow,Her thunder on the red-cross foe,The lurid cloud's sulphuric glowGlares awfully.Reëchoing peals more fiercely roar,Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore,The foaming waves that raged before,Sink, tremulous.Columbia's last sulphuric blaze,That lights her stripes and starry rays,The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays,Struck fearfully.And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo!Haste, haste and save the sinking foe:Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go,Brave conquerors.Now, honor to the warriors brave,Whose field of fame, the mountain wave,Their corses bear to ocean's cave,Their sepulchre.Their country's pæans swell their praise;And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays,Full many a bard shall chant his lays,Their requiem.
The sun had sunk beneath the west,When two proud barks to battle press'd,With swelling sail and streamers dress'd,So gallantly.
Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies:Columbia's flag more proudly flies,Her emblem stars of victoriesBeam gloriously.
Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed,Have streak'd the sky of bloody red,And now the ensanguined lustre spreadHeaven's canopy.
Dread prelude to that awful nightWhen Britain's and Columbia's mightJoin'd in the fierce and bloody fight,Hard rivalry.
Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep,Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep:Yet still the barks their courses keepUnerringly.
The northern gales more fiercely blow,The white foam dashing o'er the prow;The starry crescent round each bowBeams vividly.
Near and more near the war-ships ride,Till, ranged for battle, side by side,Each warrior's heart beats high with prideOf chivalry.
'Twas awful, ere the fight begun,To see brave warriors round each gun,While thoughts on home and carnage run,Stand silently.
As death-like stillness reigns around,Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound,Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound,Burst furiously.
So, bursting from Columbia's prow,Her thunder on the red-cross foe,The lurid cloud's sulphuric glowGlares awfully.
Reëchoing peals more fiercely roar,Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore,The foaming waves that raged before,Sink, tremulous.
Columbia's last sulphuric blaze,That lights her stripes and starry rays,The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays,Struck fearfully.
And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo!Haste, haste and save the sinking foe:Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go,Brave conquerors.
Now, honor to the warriors brave,Whose field of fame, the mountain wave,Their corses bear to ocean's cave,Their sepulchre.
Their country's pæans swell their praise;And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays,Full many a bard shall chant his lays,Their requiem.
The Wasp herself never returned to port. On September 21 she captured the Atalanta and put a crew on board to take the prize to America. They parted company, and the Wasp was never seen again.
The Wasp herself never returned to port. On September 21 she captured the Atalanta and put a crew on board to take the prize to America. They parted company, and the Wasp was never seen again.
THE LOST WAR-SLOOP
(THE WASP, 1814)
O the pride of Portsmouth water,Toast of every brimming beaker,—Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,—Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded,Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free!Every timber scorning cowards;Every port alert for foemenFrom the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;—With eleven guns to starboard,And eleven guns to larboard,All for glory on a morn of May sailed she.British ships were in the offing;Swift and light she sped between them,—Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide;They had come from Portsmouth river,Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem,Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide;Come for love of home and country,Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,—Every man among them brave and true and tried."Hearts of oak" are British seamen?Hearts of fire were these, their kindred,Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!From the mountains, from the prairies,Blew the west winds glad to waft her;—Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down!Ships with wealth of London laden,Ships with treasures of the Indies,Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town;Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon,To her valor struck their colors,Making coast and ocean ring with her renown;While her captain cried, exultant,"Britain, to the bold Republic,Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"Oh, the woful, woful endingOf the pride of Portsmouth water!Never more to harbor nor to shore came she!Springs returned but brought no tidings;Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted,Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee.Did the bolts of heaven blast her?Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm herWith her starry banner and her tall masts three?Was a pirate-fleet her captor?Did she drift to polar oceans?Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!Who shall tell? yet many a sailorIn his watch at dawn or midnight,When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan,Sees a stanch three-master looming;Hears the hurried call to quarters,The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;—Then the cannon's direful thunderEchoes far along the billows;Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;—And the watcher knows the phantomIs the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!Edna Dean Proctor.
O the pride of Portsmouth water,Toast of every brimming beaker,—Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,—Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded,Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free!Every timber scorning cowards;Every port alert for foemenFrom the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;—With eleven guns to starboard,And eleven guns to larboard,All for glory on a morn of May sailed she.British ships were in the offing;Swift and light she sped between them,—Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide;They had come from Portsmouth river,Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem,Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide;Come for love of home and country,Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,—Every man among them brave and true and tried."Hearts of oak" are British seamen?Hearts of fire were these, their kindred,Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!From the mountains, from the prairies,Blew the west winds glad to waft her;—Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down!Ships with wealth of London laden,Ships with treasures of the Indies,Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town;Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon,To her valor struck their colors,Making coast and ocean ring with her renown;While her captain cried, exultant,"Britain, to the bold Republic,Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"Oh, the woful, woful endingOf the pride of Portsmouth water!Never more to harbor nor to shore came she!Springs returned but brought no tidings;Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted,Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee.Did the bolts of heaven blast her?Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm herWith her starry banner and her tall masts three?Was a pirate-fleet her captor?Did she drift to polar oceans?Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!Who shall tell? yet many a sailorIn his watch at dawn or midnight,When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan,Sees a stanch three-master looming;Hears the hurried call to quarters,The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;—Then the cannon's direful thunderEchoes far along the billows;Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;—And the watcher knows the phantomIs the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!Edna Dean Proctor.
O the pride of Portsmouth water,Toast of every brimming beaker,—Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,—Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded,Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free!Every timber scorning cowards;Every port alert for foemenFrom the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;—With eleven guns to starboard,And eleven guns to larboard,All for glory on a morn of May sailed she.
British ships were in the offing;Swift and light she sped between them,—Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide;They had come from Portsmouth river,Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem,Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide;Come for love of home and country,Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,—Every man among them brave and true and tried."Hearts of oak" are British seamen?Hearts of fire were these, their kindred,Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!
From the mountains, from the prairies,Blew the west winds glad to waft her;—Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down!Ships with wealth of London laden,Ships with treasures of the Indies,Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town;Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon,To her valor struck their colors,Making coast and ocean ring with her renown;While her captain cried, exultant,"Britain, to the bold Republic,Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"
Oh, the woful, woful endingOf the pride of Portsmouth water!Never more to harbor nor to shore came she!Springs returned but brought no tidings;Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted,Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee.Did the bolts of heaven blast her?Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm herWith her starry banner and her tall masts three?Was a pirate-fleet her captor?Did she drift to polar oceans?Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!
Who shall tell? yet many a sailorIn his watch at dawn or midnight,When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan,Sees a stanch three-master looming;Hears the hurried call to quarters,The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;—Then the cannon's direful thunderEchoes far along the billows;Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;—And the watcher knows the phantomIs the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!
Edna Dean Proctor.
The abdication of Napoleon enabled England to turn her undivided attention to the war with America, and a large body of troops was detailed for service here. Having lost control of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, England determined to secure Lake Champlain and to invade New York by this route. A force of twelve thousand regulars, under General George Prevost, started from Montreal early in August, while the British naval force on the lake was augmented to nineteen vessels.
The abdication of Napoleon enabled England to turn her undivided attention to the war with America, and a large body of troops was detailed for service here. Having lost control of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, England determined to secure Lake Champlain and to invade New York by this route. A force of twelve thousand regulars, under General George Prevost, started from Montreal early in August, while the British naval force on the lake was augmented to nineteen vessels.
ON THE BRITISH INVASION
[1814]
From France, desponding and betray'd,From liberty in ruins laid,Exulting Britain has display'dHer flag, again to invade us.Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,Across the broad Atlantic fly,Prepared again their strength to try,And strike our country's standard.Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,And thousands more of brags and bravesAre under sail, and coming,To burn our towns, to seize our soil,To change our laws, our country spoil,And Madison to Elba's isleTo send without redemption.In Boston state they hope to findA Yankee host of kindred mind,To aid their arms, to rise and bindTheir countrymen in shackles.But no such thing—it will not do—At least, not while a Jersey BlueIs to the cause of freedom true,Or the bold Pennsylvanian.A curse on England's frantic schemes!Both mad and blind, her monarch dreamsOf crowns and kingdoms in these climes,Where kings have had their sentence.Though Washington has left our coast,Yet other Washingtons we boast,Who rise, instructed by his ghost,To punish all invaders.Go where they will, where'er they land,This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,They liberty will find at handTo hurl them to perdition!If in Virginia they appear,Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,Death in their front, and hell their rear;So says the gallant buckskin.All Carolina is prepared,And Charleston doubly on her guard;Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared,So blasted by Fort Moultrie.If farther south they turn their views,With veteran troops, or veteran crews,The curse of Heaven their march pursues,To send them all a-packing.The tallest mast that sails the wave,The longest keel its waters lave,Will bring them to an early graveOn the shores of Pensacola.Philip Freneau.
From France, desponding and betray'd,From liberty in ruins laid,Exulting Britain has display'dHer flag, again to invade us.Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,Across the broad Atlantic fly,Prepared again their strength to try,And strike our country's standard.Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,And thousands more of brags and bravesAre under sail, and coming,To burn our towns, to seize our soil,To change our laws, our country spoil,And Madison to Elba's isleTo send without redemption.In Boston state they hope to findA Yankee host of kindred mind,To aid their arms, to rise and bindTheir countrymen in shackles.But no such thing—it will not do—At least, not while a Jersey BlueIs to the cause of freedom true,Or the bold Pennsylvanian.A curse on England's frantic schemes!Both mad and blind, her monarch dreamsOf crowns and kingdoms in these climes,Where kings have had their sentence.Though Washington has left our coast,Yet other Washingtons we boast,Who rise, instructed by his ghost,To punish all invaders.Go where they will, where'er they land,This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,They liberty will find at handTo hurl them to perdition!If in Virginia they appear,Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,Death in their front, and hell their rear;So says the gallant buckskin.All Carolina is prepared,And Charleston doubly on her guard;Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared,So blasted by Fort Moultrie.If farther south they turn their views,With veteran troops, or veteran crews,The curse of Heaven their march pursues,To send them all a-packing.The tallest mast that sails the wave,The longest keel its waters lave,Will bring them to an early graveOn the shores of Pensacola.Philip Freneau.
From France, desponding and betray'd,From liberty in ruins laid,Exulting Britain has display'dHer flag, again to invade us.
Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,Across the broad Atlantic fly,Prepared again their strength to try,And strike our country's standard.
Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,And thousands more of brags and bravesAre under sail, and coming,
To burn our towns, to seize our soil,To change our laws, our country spoil,And Madison to Elba's isleTo send without redemption.
In Boston state they hope to findA Yankee host of kindred mind,To aid their arms, to rise and bindTheir countrymen in shackles.
But no such thing—it will not do—At least, not while a Jersey BlueIs to the cause of freedom true,Or the bold Pennsylvanian.
A curse on England's frantic schemes!Both mad and blind, her monarch dreamsOf crowns and kingdoms in these climes,Where kings have had their sentence.
Though Washington has left our coast,Yet other Washingtons we boast,Who rise, instructed by his ghost,To punish all invaders.
Go where they will, where'er they land,This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,They liberty will find at handTo hurl them to perdition!
If in Virginia they appear,Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,Death in their front, and hell their rear;So says the gallant buckskin.
All Carolina is prepared,And Charleston doubly on her guard;Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared,So blasted by Fort Moultrie.
If farther south they turn their views,With veteran troops, or veteran crews,The curse of Heaven their march pursues,To send them all a-packing.
The tallest mast that sails the wave,The longest keel its waters lave,Will bring them to an early graveOn the shores of Pensacola.
Philip Freneau.
The American commander on the lake was Thomas Macdonough, and by almost herculean efforts he managed to build and launch a ship, a schooner, and a number of gunboats, so that his total force was raised to fourteen sail. With this fleet, he proceeded to Plattsburg and anchored in Plattsburg Bay. On September 11 the British fleet, certain of victory, sailed in and attacked him, but was ignominiously defeated.
The American commander on the lake was Thomas Macdonough, and by almost herculean efforts he managed to build and launch a ship, a schooner, and a number of gunboats, so that his total force was raised to fourteen sail. With this fleet, he proceeded to Plattsburg and anchored in Plattsburg Bay. On September 11 the British fleet, certain of victory, sailed in and attacked him, but was ignominiously defeated.
THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN
[September 11, 1814]
Parading near Saint Peter's floodFull fourteen thousand soldiers stood;Allied with natives of the wood,With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;Which southward, now, began to steer;Their object was, Ticonderogue.Assembled at Missisqui bayA feast they held, to hail the day,When all should bend to British swayFrom Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue.And who could tell, if reaching thereThey might not other laurels shareAnd England's flag in triumph bearTo the capitol, at Albany!Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,The frigates were with vengeance stored,The strength of Mars was felt on board,—WhenDowniegave the dreadful word,Huzza! for death or victory!Sir George beheld the prize at stake,And, with his veterans, made the attack,Macomb'sbrave legions drove him back;And England's fleet approached, to meetA desperate combat, on the lake.From Isle La Motte to SaranacWith sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;We saw advance the Confiance,Shall blood and carnage mark her track,To gain dominion on the lake.Then on our ships she poured her flame,And many a tar did kill or maim,Who suffered for their country's fame,Her soil to save, her rights to guard.Macdonough, now, began his play,And soon his seamen heard him say,"No Saratoga yields, this day,To all the force that Britain sends."Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,Be firm, and to your stations haste,And England from Champlain is chased,If you behave as you see me."The fire began with awful roar;At our first flash the artillery tore,From his proud stand, their commodore,A presage of the victory.The skies were hid in flame and smoke,Such thunders from the cannon spoke,The contest such an aspect tookAs if all nature went to wreck!Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed,Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,Or waded through a scene of blood,At every step that round him streamed:He stood amidst Columbia's sons,He stood amidst dismounted guns,He fought amidst heart-rending groans,The tattered sail, the tottering mast.Then, round about, his ship he wore,And charged his guns with vengeance sore,And more than Etna shook the shore—The foe confessed the contest vain.In vain they fought, in vain they sailed,That day; for Britain's fortune failed,And their best efforts naught availedTo hold dominion on Champlain.So, down their colors to the deckThe vanquished struck—their ships a wreck—What dismal tidings for Quebec,What news for England and her prince!For, in this fleet, from England won,A favorite project is undone;Her sorrows only are begun—And she may want, and very soon,Her armies for her own defence.Philip Freneau.
Parading near Saint Peter's floodFull fourteen thousand soldiers stood;Allied with natives of the wood,With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;Which southward, now, began to steer;Their object was, Ticonderogue.Assembled at Missisqui bayA feast they held, to hail the day,When all should bend to British swayFrom Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue.And who could tell, if reaching thereThey might not other laurels shareAnd England's flag in triumph bearTo the capitol, at Albany!Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,The frigates were with vengeance stored,The strength of Mars was felt on board,—WhenDowniegave the dreadful word,Huzza! for death or victory!Sir George beheld the prize at stake,And, with his veterans, made the attack,Macomb'sbrave legions drove him back;And England's fleet approached, to meetA desperate combat, on the lake.From Isle La Motte to SaranacWith sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;We saw advance the Confiance,Shall blood and carnage mark her track,To gain dominion on the lake.Then on our ships she poured her flame,And many a tar did kill or maim,Who suffered for their country's fame,Her soil to save, her rights to guard.Macdonough, now, began his play,And soon his seamen heard him say,"No Saratoga yields, this day,To all the force that Britain sends."Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,Be firm, and to your stations haste,And England from Champlain is chased,If you behave as you see me."The fire began with awful roar;At our first flash the artillery tore,From his proud stand, their commodore,A presage of the victory.The skies were hid in flame and smoke,Such thunders from the cannon spoke,The contest such an aspect tookAs if all nature went to wreck!Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed,Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,Or waded through a scene of blood,At every step that round him streamed:He stood amidst Columbia's sons,He stood amidst dismounted guns,He fought amidst heart-rending groans,The tattered sail, the tottering mast.Then, round about, his ship he wore,And charged his guns with vengeance sore,And more than Etna shook the shore—The foe confessed the contest vain.In vain they fought, in vain they sailed,That day; for Britain's fortune failed,And their best efforts naught availedTo hold dominion on Champlain.So, down their colors to the deckThe vanquished struck—their ships a wreck—What dismal tidings for Quebec,What news for England and her prince!For, in this fleet, from England won,A favorite project is undone;Her sorrows only are begun—And she may want, and very soon,Her armies for her own defence.Philip Freneau.
Parading near Saint Peter's floodFull fourteen thousand soldiers stood;Allied with natives of the wood,With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;Which southward, now, began to steer;Their object was, Ticonderogue.
Assembled at Missisqui bayA feast they held, to hail the day,When all should bend to British swayFrom Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue.
And who could tell, if reaching thereThey might not other laurels shareAnd England's flag in triumph bearTo the capitol, at Albany!
Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,The frigates were with vengeance stored,The strength of Mars was felt on board,—WhenDowniegave the dreadful word,Huzza! for death or victory!
Sir George beheld the prize at stake,And, with his veterans, made the attack,Macomb'sbrave legions drove him back;And England's fleet approached, to meetA desperate combat, on the lake.
From Isle La Motte to SaranacWith sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;We saw advance the Confiance,Shall blood and carnage mark her track,To gain dominion on the lake.
Then on our ships she poured her flame,And many a tar did kill or maim,Who suffered for their country's fame,Her soil to save, her rights to guard.
Macdonough, now, began his play,And soon his seamen heard him say,"No Saratoga yields, this day,To all the force that Britain sends.
"Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,Be firm, and to your stations haste,And England from Champlain is chased,If you behave as you see me."
The fire began with awful roar;At our first flash the artillery tore,From his proud stand, their commodore,A presage of the victory.
The skies were hid in flame and smoke,Such thunders from the cannon spoke,The contest such an aspect tookAs if all nature went to wreck!
Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed,Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,Or waded through a scene of blood,At every step that round him streamed:
He stood amidst Columbia's sons,He stood amidst dismounted guns,He fought amidst heart-rending groans,The tattered sail, the tottering mast.
Then, round about, his ship he wore,And charged his guns with vengeance sore,And more than Etna shook the shore—The foe confessed the contest vain.
In vain they fought, in vain they sailed,That day; for Britain's fortune failed,And their best efforts naught availedTo hold dominion on Champlain.
So, down their colors to the deckThe vanquished struck—their ships a wreck—What dismal tidings for Quebec,What news for England and her prince!
For, in this fleet, from England won,A favorite project is undone;Her sorrows only are begun—And she may want, and very soon,Her armies for her own defence.
Philip Freneau.
THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY
[September 11, 1814]
Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay!Blue and gold in the dawning ray,Crimson under the high noondayWith the reek of the fray!
Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay!Blue and gold in the dawning ray,Crimson under the high noondayWith the reek of the fray!
Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay!Blue and gold in the dawning ray,Crimson under the high noondayWith the reek of the fray!
It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailorAs ever went scurrying over the main;And he cried from his deck,If they think I'm a quailer,And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain,We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain!So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab IslandHe scattered his squadron in trim battle-line;And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland,He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine,Imploring that Heaven would crown his design.Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance;The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar;Soon gunboat and galley in hearty allianceTheir resonant volley of compliments pour;And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore!And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling,A game-cock, released by a splintering ball,Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling,And over the din gave his trumpeting call,An omen of ultimate triumph to all!Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces;Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun;And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces,And the fume of our cannon—it shrouded the sun;Cried Macdonough—Once more, and the battle is won!Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing;The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore;The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing;The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar;Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore!Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory,And many a brave brow was pallid with pain;And while some won to death, yet we all won to gloryWho fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain,And humbled her pride who is queen of the main!Clinton Scollard.
It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailorAs ever went scurrying over the main;And he cried from his deck,If they think I'm a quailer,And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain,We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain!So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab IslandHe scattered his squadron in trim battle-line;And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland,He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine,Imploring that Heaven would crown his design.Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance;The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar;Soon gunboat and galley in hearty allianceTheir resonant volley of compliments pour;And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore!And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling,A game-cock, released by a splintering ball,Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling,And over the din gave his trumpeting call,An omen of ultimate triumph to all!Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces;Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun;And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces,And the fume of our cannon—it shrouded the sun;Cried Macdonough—Once more, and the battle is won!Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing;The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore;The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing;The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar;Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore!Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory,And many a brave brow was pallid with pain;And while some won to death, yet we all won to gloryWho fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain,And humbled her pride who is queen of the main!Clinton Scollard.
It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailorAs ever went scurrying over the main;And he cried from his deck,If they think I'm a quailer,And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain,We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain!
So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab IslandHe scattered his squadron in trim battle-line;And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland,He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine,Imploring that Heaven would crown his design.
Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance;The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar;Soon gunboat and galley in hearty allianceTheir resonant volley of compliments pour;And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore!
And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling,A game-cock, released by a splintering ball,Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling,And over the din gave his trumpeting call,An omen of ultimate triumph to all!
Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces;Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun;And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces,And the fume of our cannon—it shrouded the sun;Cried Macdonough—Once more, and the battle is won!
Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing;The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore;The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing;The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar;Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore!
Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory,And many a brave brow was pallid with pain;And while some won to death, yet we all won to gloryWho fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain,And humbled her pride who is queen of the main!
Clinton Scollard.
While the naval battle was in progress, Prevost made an assault on the American lines, but was repulsed with loss, and learning of the fleet's defeat, ordered a retreat. This was so precipitate that it was almost a flight, and great quantities of artillery, stores, and provisions fell into the hands of the Americans.
While the naval battle was in progress, Prevost made an assault on the American lines, but was repulsed with loss, and learning of the fleet's defeat, ordered a retreat. This was so precipitate that it was almost a flight, and great quantities of artillery, stores, and provisions fell into the hands of the Americans.
THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG
[September 11, 1814]
Sir George Prevost, with all his host,March'd forth from Montreal, sir,Both he and they as blithe and gayAs going to a ball, sir.The troops he chose were all of thoseThat conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir;Who at Garonne (the fact is known)Scarce brought they to a halt, sir.With troops like these, he thought with easeTo crush the Yankee faction:His only thought was how he oughtTo bring them into action."Your very names," Sir George exclaims,"Without a gun or bayonet,Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts,And all their spirits stagnate."Oh! how I dread lest they have fledAnd left their puny fort, sir,For sure Macomb won't stay at home,T' afford us any sport, sir.Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd:"Keep close as mice or rats snug:We'll just run out upon a scout,To burn the town of Plattsburg."Then up Champlain with might and mainHe marched in dress array, sir;With fife and drum to scare Macomb,And drive him quite away, sir.And, side by side, their nation's prideAlong the current beat, sir:Sworn not to sup till they ate upMcDonough and his fleet, sir.Still onward came these men of fame,Resolved to give "no quarter:"But to their cost they found at lastThat they had caught a Tartar.At distant shot awhile they fought,By water and by land, sir:His knightship ran from man to man,And gave his dread command, sir."Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb—So well the fellow knows us—Will just as soon jump o'er the moonAs venture to oppose us.With quick despatch light every match,Man every gun and swivel,Cross in a crack the Saranac,And drive 'em to the devil!"The Vermont ranks that lined the banks,Then poised the unerring rifle,And to oppose their haughty foesThey found a perfect trifle.Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport,They thought the devil was in it;Their mighty train play'd off in vain—'Twas silenced in a minute.Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed,Such frantic gambols acted,Of all his men, not one in tenBut thought him quite distracted.He cursed and swore, his hair he tore,Then jump'd upon his pony,And gallop'd off towards the bluff,To look for Captain Downie.But when he spied McDonough ride,In all the pomp of glory,He hasten'd back to Saranac,To tell the dismal story:"My gallant crews—Oh! shocking news—Are all or killed or taken!Except a few that just withdrewIn time to save their bacon."Old England's pride must now subside.Oh! how the news will shock her,To have her fleet not only beat,But sent to Davy's locker.From this sad day, let no one sayBritannia rules the ocean:We've dearly bought the humbling thought,That this is all a notion."With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men,But these are Satan's legions,With malice fraught, some piping hotFrom Pluto's darkest regions!Hélas! mon Dieu! what shall I do?I smell the burning sulphur—Set Britain's isle all rank and file,Such men would soon engulf her."That's full as bad—Oh! I'll run mad!Those western hounds are summon'd;Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down,To serve me just like Drummond.Thick, too, as bees, the VermonteseAre swarming to the lake, sir;And Izard's men, come back again,Lie hid in every brake, sir."Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat,Before their forces join, sir:For, sure as fate, they've laid a baitTo catch us like Burgoyne, sir.All round about, keep good look out:We'll surely be surrounded;Since I could crawl, my gallant soulWas never so astounded."The rout begun, Sir George led on,His men ran helter skelter,Each tried his best t' outrun the restTo gain a place of shelter;To hide their fear, they gave a cheer,And thought it mighty cunning—He'll fight, they say, another day,Who saves himself by running!
Sir George Prevost, with all his host,March'd forth from Montreal, sir,Both he and they as blithe and gayAs going to a ball, sir.The troops he chose were all of thoseThat conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir;Who at Garonne (the fact is known)Scarce brought they to a halt, sir.With troops like these, he thought with easeTo crush the Yankee faction:His only thought was how he oughtTo bring them into action."Your very names," Sir George exclaims,"Without a gun or bayonet,Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts,And all their spirits stagnate."Oh! how I dread lest they have fledAnd left their puny fort, sir,For sure Macomb won't stay at home,T' afford us any sport, sir.Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd:"Keep close as mice or rats snug:We'll just run out upon a scout,To burn the town of Plattsburg."Then up Champlain with might and mainHe marched in dress array, sir;With fife and drum to scare Macomb,And drive him quite away, sir.And, side by side, their nation's prideAlong the current beat, sir:Sworn not to sup till they ate upMcDonough and his fleet, sir.Still onward came these men of fame,Resolved to give "no quarter:"But to their cost they found at lastThat they had caught a Tartar.At distant shot awhile they fought,By water and by land, sir:His knightship ran from man to man,And gave his dread command, sir."Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb—So well the fellow knows us—Will just as soon jump o'er the moonAs venture to oppose us.With quick despatch light every match,Man every gun and swivel,Cross in a crack the Saranac,And drive 'em to the devil!"The Vermont ranks that lined the banks,Then poised the unerring rifle,And to oppose their haughty foesThey found a perfect trifle.Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport,They thought the devil was in it;Their mighty train play'd off in vain—'Twas silenced in a minute.Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed,Such frantic gambols acted,Of all his men, not one in tenBut thought him quite distracted.He cursed and swore, his hair he tore,Then jump'd upon his pony,And gallop'd off towards the bluff,To look for Captain Downie.But when he spied McDonough ride,In all the pomp of glory,He hasten'd back to Saranac,To tell the dismal story:"My gallant crews—Oh! shocking news—Are all or killed or taken!Except a few that just withdrewIn time to save their bacon."Old England's pride must now subside.Oh! how the news will shock her,To have her fleet not only beat,But sent to Davy's locker.From this sad day, let no one sayBritannia rules the ocean:We've dearly bought the humbling thought,That this is all a notion."With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men,But these are Satan's legions,With malice fraught, some piping hotFrom Pluto's darkest regions!Hélas! mon Dieu! what shall I do?I smell the burning sulphur—Set Britain's isle all rank and file,Such men would soon engulf her."That's full as bad—Oh! I'll run mad!Those western hounds are summon'd;Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down,To serve me just like Drummond.Thick, too, as bees, the VermonteseAre swarming to the lake, sir;And Izard's men, come back again,Lie hid in every brake, sir."Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat,Before their forces join, sir:For, sure as fate, they've laid a baitTo catch us like Burgoyne, sir.All round about, keep good look out:We'll surely be surrounded;Since I could crawl, my gallant soulWas never so astounded."The rout begun, Sir George led on,His men ran helter skelter,Each tried his best t' outrun the restTo gain a place of shelter;To hide their fear, they gave a cheer,And thought it mighty cunning—He'll fight, they say, another day,Who saves himself by running!
Sir George Prevost, with all his host,March'd forth from Montreal, sir,Both he and they as blithe and gayAs going to a ball, sir.The troops he chose were all of thoseThat conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir;Who at Garonne (the fact is known)Scarce brought they to a halt, sir.
With troops like these, he thought with easeTo crush the Yankee faction:His only thought was how he oughtTo bring them into action."Your very names," Sir George exclaims,"Without a gun or bayonet,Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts,And all their spirits stagnate.
"Oh! how I dread lest they have fledAnd left their puny fort, sir,For sure Macomb won't stay at home,T' afford us any sport, sir.Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd:"Keep close as mice or rats snug:We'll just run out upon a scout,To burn the town of Plattsburg."
Then up Champlain with might and mainHe marched in dress array, sir;With fife and drum to scare Macomb,And drive him quite away, sir.And, side by side, their nation's prideAlong the current beat, sir:Sworn not to sup till they ate upMcDonough and his fleet, sir.
Still onward came these men of fame,Resolved to give "no quarter:"But to their cost they found at lastThat they had caught a Tartar.At distant shot awhile they fought,By water and by land, sir:His knightship ran from man to man,And gave his dread command, sir.
"Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb—So well the fellow knows us—Will just as soon jump o'er the moonAs venture to oppose us.With quick despatch light every match,Man every gun and swivel,Cross in a crack the Saranac,And drive 'em to the devil!"
The Vermont ranks that lined the banks,Then poised the unerring rifle,And to oppose their haughty foesThey found a perfect trifle.Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport,They thought the devil was in it;Their mighty train play'd off in vain—'Twas silenced in a minute.
Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed,Such frantic gambols acted,Of all his men, not one in tenBut thought him quite distracted.He cursed and swore, his hair he tore,Then jump'd upon his pony,And gallop'd off towards the bluff,To look for Captain Downie.
But when he spied McDonough ride,In all the pomp of glory,He hasten'd back to Saranac,To tell the dismal story:"My gallant crews—Oh! shocking news—Are all or killed or taken!Except a few that just withdrewIn time to save their bacon.
"Old England's pride must now subside.Oh! how the news will shock her,To have her fleet not only beat,But sent to Davy's locker.From this sad day, let no one sayBritannia rules the ocean:We've dearly bought the humbling thought,That this is all a notion.
"With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men,But these are Satan's legions,With malice fraught, some piping hotFrom Pluto's darkest regions!Hélas! mon Dieu! what shall I do?I smell the burning sulphur—Set Britain's isle all rank and file,Such men would soon engulf her.
"That's full as bad—Oh! I'll run mad!Those western hounds are summon'd;Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down,To serve me just like Drummond.Thick, too, as bees, the VermonteseAre swarming to the lake, sir;And Izard's men, come back again,Lie hid in every brake, sir.
"Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat,Before their forces join, sir:For, sure as fate, they've laid a baitTo catch us like Burgoyne, sir.All round about, keep good look out:We'll surely be surrounded;Since I could crawl, my gallant soulWas never so astounded."
The rout begun, Sir George led on,His men ran helter skelter,Each tried his best t' outrun the restTo gain a place of shelter;To hide their fear, they gave a cheer,And thought it mighty cunning—He'll fight, they say, another day,Who saves himself by running!
Although the blow at New York had been turned aside, another, aimed at the Nation's Capital, fell with deadly effect. On August 24, 1814, a strong force landed in Chesapeake Bay, routed a force of militia at Bladensburg, entered Washington, and burned the Capitol, White House, and many other public buildings. A few days later, Baltimore was attacked.
Although the blow at New York had been turned aside, another, aimed at the Nation's Capital, fell with deadly effect. On August 24, 1814, a strong force landed in Chesapeake Bay, routed a force of militia at Bladensburg, entered Washington, and burned the Capitol, White House, and many other public buildings. A few days later, Baltimore was attacked.
THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE
[September 12, 1814]
Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too,And many a bloody villain more,Swore with their bloody savage crew,That they would plunder Baltimore.ButGeneral Winderbeing afraidThat his militia would not stand,He sent away to crave the aidOf a few true Virginians.Then up we rose with hearts elate,To help our suffering sister state.When first our orders we received,For to prepare without delay,Our wives and sweethearts for to leave,And to the army march away,Although it grieved our hearts full sore,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er,And march'd like true Virginians.Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu,With honor we'll return to you.With rapid marches on we went,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,No halt was made, no time was spent,Till we arrived at Baltimore.The Baltimoreans did us greet,The ladies clapt their lily-white hands,Exclaiming as we passed the street,"Welcome, ye brave Virginians.May Heaven all your foes confound,And send you home with laurels crown'd."We had not been in quarters long,Before we heard the dread alarms,The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring,The drum did beat to arms, to arms.Then up we rose to face our foes,Determined to meet them on the strand,And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore,Or die like brave Virginians.In Heaven above we placed our trust,Well knowing that our cause is just.Then Ross he landed at North Point,With seven thousand men or more,And swore by that time next night,That he would be in Baltimore.But Striker met him on the strand,Attended by a chosen band,Where he received a fatal shotFrom a brave Pennsylvanian—Whom Heaven directed to the field,To make this haughty Briton yield.Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet,To bombard Fort McHenry,A thinking that our men, of course,Would take affright and run away.The fort was commanded by a patriotic band,As ever graced fair Freedom's land,And he who did the fort commandWas a true blue Virginian.Long may we have brave Armstead's nameRecorded on the book of fame.A day and a night they tried their might,But found their bombs did not prevail,And seeing their army put to flight,They weigh'd their anchor and made sail,Resolving to return again,To execute their former plan;But if they do, they'll find us stillThat we are brave Virginians.And they shall know before they've done,That they are not in Washington.But now their shipping's out of sight,And each man takes a parting glass,Drinks to his true love and heart's delight,His only joy and bosom friend,For I might as well drink a health,For I hate to see good liquor stand,That America may always boastThat we are brave Virginians.
Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too,And many a bloody villain more,Swore with their bloody savage crew,That they would plunder Baltimore.ButGeneral Winderbeing afraidThat his militia would not stand,He sent away to crave the aidOf a few true Virginians.Then up we rose with hearts elate,To help our suffering sister state.When first our orders we received,For to prepare without delay,Our wives and sweethearts for to leave,And to the army march away,Although it grieved our hearts full sore,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er,And march'd like true Virginians.Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu,With honor we'll return to you.With rapid marches on we went,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,No halt was made, no time was spent,Till we arrived at Baltimore.The Baltimoreans did us greet,The ladies clapt their lily-white hands,Exclaiming as we passed the street,"Welcome, ye brave Virginians.May Heaven all your foes confound,And send you home with laurels crown'd."We had not been in quarters long,Before we heard the dread alarms,The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring,The drum did beat to arms, to arms.Then up we rose to face our foes,Determined to meet them on the strand,And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore,Or die like brave Virginians.In Heaven above we placed our trust,Well knowing that our cause is just.Then Ross he landed at North Point,With seven thousand men or more,And swore by that time next night,That he would be in Baltimore.But Striker met him on the strand,Attended by a chosen band,Where he received a fatal shotFrom a brave Pennsylvanian—Whom Heaven directed to the field,To make this haughty Briton yield.Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet,To bombard Fort McHenry,A thinking that our men, of course,Would take affright and run away.The fort was commanded by a patriotic band,As ever graced fair Freedom's land,And he who did the fort commandWas a true blue Virginian.Long may we have brave Armstead's nameRecorded on the book of fame.A day and a night they tried their might,But found their bombs did not prevail,And seeing their army put to flight,They weigh'd their anchor and made sail,Resolving to return again,To execute their former plan;But if they do, they'll find us stillThat we are brave Virginians.And they shall know before they've done,That they are not in Washington.But now their shipping's out of sight,And each man takes a parting glass,Drinks to his true love and heart's delight,His only joy and bosom friend,For I might as well drink a health,For I hate to see good liquor stand,That America may always boastThat we are brave Virginians.
Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too,And many a bloody villain more,Swore with their bloody savage crew,That they would plunder Baltimore.ButGeneral Winderbeing afraidThat his militia would not stand,He sent away to crave the aidOf a few true Virginians.Then up we rose with hearts elate,To help our suffering sister state.
When first our orders we received,For to prepare without delay,Our wives and sweethearts for to leave,And to the army march away,Although it grieved our hearts full sore,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er,And march'd like true Virginians.Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu,With honor we'll return to you.
With rapid marches on we went,To leave our sweet Virginia shore,No halt was made, no time was spent,Till we arrived at Baltimore.The Baltimoreans did us greet,The ladies clapt their lily-white hands,Exclaiming as we passed the street,"Welcome, ye brave Virginians.May Heaven all your foes confound,And send you home with laurels crown'd."
We had not been in quarters long,Before we heard the dread alarms,The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring,The drum did beat to arms, to arms.Then up we rose to face our foes,Determined to meet them on the strand,And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore,Or die like brave Virginians.In Heaven above we placed our trust,Well knowing that our cause is just.
Then Ross he landed at North Point,With seven thousand men or more,And swore by that time next night,That he would be in Baltimore.But Striker met him on the strand,Attended by a chosen band,Where he received a fatal shotFrom a brave Pennsylvanian—Whom Heaven directed to the field,To make this haughty Briton yield.
Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet,To bombard Fort McHenry,A thinking that our men, of course,Would take affright and run away.The fort was commanded by a patriotic band,As ever graced fair Freedom's land,And he who did the fort commandWas a true blue Virginian.Long may we have brave Armstead's nameRecorded on the book of fame.
A day and a night they tried their might,But found their bombs did not prevail,And seeing their army put to flight,They weigh'd their anchor and made sail,Resolving to return again,To execute their former plan;But if they do, they'll find us stillThat we are brave Virginians.And they shall know before they've done,That they are not in Washington.
But now their shipping's out of sight,And each man takes a parting glass,Drinks to his true love and heart's delight,His only joy and bosom friend,For I might as well drink a health,For I hate to see good liquor stand,That America may always boastThat we are brave Virginians.
The next day, Admiral Cochrane moved his fleet into position to attack Fort McHenry, two miles above the city, and began a terrific bombardment, which lasted all the night. The fort answered with such guns as would reach the ships, and when morning dawned, the Stars and Stripes were still floating over it. The British feared to attack an intrenchment so gallantly defended, and the next day retreated to their shipping.
The next day, Admiral Cochrane moved his fleet into position to attack Fort McHenry, two miles above the city, and began a terrific bombardment, which lasted all the night. The fort answered with such guns as would reach the ships, and when morning dawned, the Stars and Stripes were still floating over it. The British feared to attack an intrenchment so gallantly defended, and the next day retreated to their shipping.
FORT McHENRY
[September 13, 1814]