ICome, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware—The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;The tartans of Grant's Highlanderswere sodden yet and red,As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.—Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,'Twixt laurelledLoyalhannaand the outposts of Duquesne.And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous woodWhere Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble oneWhose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stainBefore to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."II'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleamHad left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;The forage and provision, too,—so Ormsby said,—were gone.Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frameThere ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in frightAt the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems rivenBy the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,As came the scouts swift-footed in—"They fly! the foe! they fly!They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"IIINow morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame;And through the brown woods on the hills—those altars of the world—The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious dinOf twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seasWould speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecœur's armed batteaux,And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout—"Long live the King!Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reignThat adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"Florus B. Plimpton.
ICome, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware—The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;The tartans of Grant's Highlanderswere sodden yet and red,As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.—Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,'Twixt laurelledLoyalhannaand the outposts of Duquesne.And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous woodWhere Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble oneWhose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stainBefore to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."II'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleamHad left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;The forage and provision, too,—so Ormsby said,—were gone.Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frameThere ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in frightAt the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems rivenBy the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,As came the scouts swift-footed in—"They fly! the foe! they fly!They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"IIINow morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame;And through the brown woods on the hills—those altars of the world—The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious dinOf twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seasWould speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecœur's armed batteaux,And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout—"Long live the King!Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reignThat adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"Florus B. Plimpton.
ICome, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.
For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.
Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!
They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware—The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.
O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.
And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;The tartans of Grant's Highlanderswere sodden yet and red,As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.
—Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,'Twixt laurelledLoyalhannaand the outposts of Duquesne.
And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous woodWhere Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble oneWhose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.
Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stainBefore to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."
II'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleamHad left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.
The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.
Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;The forage and provision, too,—so Ormsby said,—were gone.Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.
Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frameThere ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"
So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in frightAt the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.
Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems rivenBy the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!
O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,As came the scouts swift-footed in—"They fly! the foe! they fly!They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"
IIINow morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame;And through the brown woods on the hills—those altars of the world—The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.
Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious dinOf twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.
Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seasWould speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.
Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.
Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecœur's armed batteaux,And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.
Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.
Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout—"Long live the King!Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reignThat adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"
Florus B. Plimpton.
Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe, who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.
Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe, who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.
HOT STUFF
[June, 1759]
Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will tryAt their capital to give them another black eye.Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,—Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;And the Indians will come: but the light infantryWill soon obligethemto betake to a tree.From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's—I know the lappels.""You lie," saysNed Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."Edward Botwood.
Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will tryAt their capital to give them another black eye.Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,—Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;And the Indians will come: but the light infantryWill soon obligethemto betake to a tree.From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's—I know the lappels.""You lie," saysNed Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."Edward Botwood.
Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.
Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will tryAt their capital to give them another black eye.Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,—Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.
With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;And the Indians will come: but the light infantryWill soon obligethemto betake to a tree.From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!
When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's—I know the lappels.""You lie," saysNed Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."
Edward Botwood.
About the end of August a place was found where the heights might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"
About the end of August a place was found where the heights might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"
HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?
[September 12, 1759]
How stands the glass around?For shame ye take no care, my boys,How stands the glass around?Let mirth and wine abound,The trumpets sound,The colors they are flying, boys,To fight, kill, or wound,May we still be foundContent with our hard fate, my boys,On the cold ground.Why, soldiers, why,Should we be melancholy, boys?Why, soldiers, why?Whose business 'tis to die!What, sighing? fie!Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!'Tis he, you or I!Cold, hot, wet or dry,We're always bound to follow, boys,And scorn to fly!'Tis but in vain,—I mean not to upbraid you, boys,—'Tis but in vain,For soldiers to complain:Should next campaignSend us to him who made us, boys,We're free from pain!But if we remain,A bottle and a kind landladyCure all again.James Wolfe.
How stands the glass around?For shame ye take no care, my boys,How stands the glass around?Let mirth and wine abound,The trumpets sound,The colors they are flying, boys,To fight, kill, or wound,May we still be foundContent with our hard fate, my boys,On the cold ground.Why, soldiers, why,Should we be melancholy, boys?Why, soldiers, why?Whose business 'tis to die!What, sighing? fie!Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!'Tis he, you or I!Cold, hot, wet or dry,We're always bound to follow, boys,And scorn to fly!'Tis but in vain,—I mean not to upbraid you, boys,—'Tis but in vain,For soldiers to complain:Should next campaignSend us to him who made us, boys,We're free from pain!But if we remain,A bottle and a kind landladyCure all again.James Wolfe.
How stands the glass around?For shame ye take no care, my boys,How stands the glass around?Let mirth and wine abound,The trumpets sound,The colors they are flying, boys,To fight, kill, or wound,May we still be foundContent with our hard fate, my boys,On the cold ground.
Why, soldiers, why,Should we be melancholy, boys?Why, soldiers, why?Whose business 'tis to die!What, sighing? fie!Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!'Tis he, you or I!Cold, hot, wet or dry,We're always bound to follow, boys,And scorn to fly!
'Tis but in vain,—I mean not to upbraid you, boys,—'Tis but in vain,For soldiers to complain:Should next campaignSend us to him who made us, boys,We're free from pain!But if we remain,A bottle and a kind landladyCure all again.
James Wolfe.
Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in line of battle on the Plains of Abraham—they had scaled the cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible resolution reached to abandon the fort without further resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of France.
Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in line of battle on the Plains of Abraham—they had scaled the cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible resolution reached to abandon the fort without further resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of France.
BRAVE WOLFE
[September 13, 1759]
Cheer up, my young men all,Let nothing fright you;Though oft objections rise,Let it delight you.Let not your fancy moveWhene'er it comes to trial;Nor let your courage failAt the first denial.I sat down by my love,Thinking that I woo'd her;I sat down by my love,But sure not to delude her.But when I got to speak,My tongue it doth so quiver,I dare not speak my mind,Whenever I am with her.Love, here's a ring of gold,'Tis long that I have kept it,My dear, now for my sake,I pray you to accept it.When you the posy read,Pray think upon the giver,My dear, remember me,Or I'm undone forever.Then Wolfe he took his leave,Of his most lovely jewel;Although it seemed to beTo him, an act most cruel.Although it's for a spaceI'm forced to leave my love,My dear, where'er I rove,I'll ne'er forget my dove.So then this valiant youthEmbarked on the ocean,To free AmericaFrom faction's dire commotion.He landed at Quebec,Being all brave and hearty;The city to attack,With his most gallant party.Then Wolfe drew up his men,In rank and file so pretty,On Abraham's lofty heights,Before this noble city.A distance from the townThe noble French did meet them,In double numbers there,Resolved for to beat them.A Parley:WolfeandMontcalmtogetherMontcalm and this brave youth,Together they are walking;So well they do agree,Like brothers they are talking.Then each one to his post,As they do now retire;Oh, then their numerous hostsBegan their dreadful fire.Then instant from his horse,Fell this most noble hero,May we lament his lossIn words of deepest sorrow.The French are seen to break,Their columns all are flying;Then Wolfe he seems to wake,Though in the act of dying.And lifting up his head(The drums and trumpets rattle),And to his army said,"I pray how goes the battle?"His aide-de-camp replied,"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,Quebec and all her pride,'Tis nothing now can save her."She falls into our hands,With all her wealth and treasure.""O then," brave Wolfe replied,"I quit the world with pleasure."
Cheer up, my young men all,Let nothing fright you;Though oft objections rise,Let it delight you.Let not your fancy moveWhene'er it comes to trial;Nor let your courage failAt the first denial.I sat down by my love,Thinking that I woo'd her;I sat down by my love,But sure not to delude her.But when I got to speak,My tongue it doth so quiver,I dare not speak my mind,Whenever I am with her.Love, here's a ring of gold,'Tis long that I have kept it,My dear, now for my sake,I pray you to accept it.When you the posy read,Pray think upon the giver,My dear, remember me,Or I'm undone forever.Then Wolfe he took his leave,Of his most lovely jewel;Although it seemed to beTo him, an act most cruel.Although it's for a spaceI'm forced to leave my love,My dear, where'er I rove,I'll ne'er forget my dove.So then this valiant youthEmbarked on the ocean,To free AmericaFrom faction's dire commotion.He landed at Quebec,Being all brave and hearty;The city to attack,With his most gallant party.Then Wolfe drew up his men,In rank and file so pretty,On Abraham's lofty heights,Before this noble city.A distance from the townThe noble French did meet them,In double numbers there,Resolved for to beat them.A Parley:WolfeandMontcalmtogetherMontcalm and this brave youth,Together they are walking;So well they do agree,Like brothers they are talking.Then each one to his post,As they do now retire;Oh, then their numerous hostsBegan their dreadful fire.Then instant from his horse,Fell this most noble hero,May we lament his lossIn words of deepest sorrow.The French are seen to break,Their columns all are flying;Then Wolfe he seems to wake,Though in the act of dying.And lifting up his head(The drums and trumpets rattle),And to his army said,"I pray how goes the battle?"His aide-de-camp replied,"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,Quebec and all her pride,'Tis nothing now can save her."She falls into our hands,With all her wealth and treasure.""O then," brave Wolfe replied,"I quit the world with pleasure."
Cheer up, my young men all,Let nothing fright you;Though oft objections rise,Let it delight you.
Let not your fancy moveWhene'er it comes to trial;Nor let your courage failAt the first denial.
I sat down by my love,Thinking that I woo'd her;I sat down by my love,But sure not to delude her.
But when I got to speak,My tongue it doth so quiver,I dare not speak my mind,Whenever I am with her.
Love, here's a ring of gold,'Tis long that I have kept it,My dear, now for my sake,I pray you to accept it.
When you the posy read,Pray think upon the giver,My dear, remember me,Or I'm undone forever.
Then Wolfe he took his leave,Of his most lovely jewel;Although it seemed to beTo him, an act most cruel.
Although it's for a spaceI'm forced to leave my love,My dear, where'er I rove,I'll ne'er forget my dove.
So then this valiant youthEmbarked on the ocean,To free AmericaFrom faction's dire commotion.
He landed at Quebec,Being all brave and hearty;The city to attack,With his most gallant party.
Then Wolfe drew up his men,In rank and file so pretty,On Abraham's lofty heights,Before this noble city.
A distance from the townThe noble French did meet them,In double numbers there,Resolved for to beat them.
A Parley:WolfeandMontcalmtogether
Montcalm and this brave youth,Together they are walking;So well they do agree,Like brothers they are talking.
Then each one to his post,As they do now retire;Oh, then their numerous hostsBegan their dreadful fire.
Then instant from his horse,Fell this most noble hero,May we lament his lossIn words of deepest sorrow.
The French are seen to break,Their columns all are flying;Then Wolfe he seems to wake,Though in the act of dying.
And lifting up his head(The drums and trumpets rattle),And to his army said,"I pray how goes the battle?"
His aide-de-camp replied,"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,Quebec and all her pride,'Tis nothing now can save her.
"She falls into our hands,With all her wealth and treasure.""O then," brave Wolfe replied,"I quit the world with pleasure."
Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes which this or any other age can boast of."
Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes which this or any other age can boast of."
THE DEATH OF WOLFE
[September 13, 1759]
Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,The breathing marble or the muses' lays.Art is but vain—the force of language weak,To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,Each line to raise, and animate at will—To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,Point out its object, or its rage control—Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we findOf those great virtues that adorned thy mind.Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear—While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,And placed her safety in ignoble flight.Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,And rage and grief alternately impart.With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,These were the words that closed the warrior's breath—"My eyesight fails!—but does the foe retreat?If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,Cried, "Sir, they fly!—their ranks entirely broke:Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,And from his lips these dying accents stole:—"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,Guarded by angels to celestial day.An awful band!—Britannia's mighty dead,Receives to glory his immortal shade.Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief—Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,With joyful song conduct their welcome guestTo the bright mansions of eternal rest—For those prepared who merit just applauseBy bravely dying in their country's cause.Pennsylvania Gazette, November 8, 1759.
Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,The breathing marble or the muses' lays.Art is but vain—the force of language weak,To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,Each line to raise, and animate at will—To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,Point out its object, or its rage control—Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we findOf those great virtues that adorned thy mind.Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear—While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,And placed her safety in ignoble flight.Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,And rage and grief alternately impart.With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,These were the words that closed the warrior's breath—"My eyesight fails!—but does the foe retreat?If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,Cried, "Sir, they fly!—their ranks entirely broke:Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,And from his lips these dying accents stole:—"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,Guarded by angels to celestial day.An awful band!—Britannia's mighty dead,Receives to glory his immortal shade.Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief—Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,With joyful song conduct their welcome guestTo the bright mansions of eternal rest—For those prepared who merit just applauseBy bravely dying in their country's cause.Pennsylvania Gazette, November 8, 1759.
Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,The breathing marble or the muses' lays.Art is but vain—the force of language weak,To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,Each line to raise, and animate at will—To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,Point out its object, or its rage control—Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we findOf those great virtues that adorned thy mind.Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear—While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,And placed her safety in ignoble flight.Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,And rage and grief alternately impart.With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,These were the words that closed the warrior's breath—"My eyesight fails!—but does the foe retreat?If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,Cried, "Sir, they fly!—their ranks entirely broke:Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,And from his lips these dying accents stole:—"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,Guarded by angels to celestial day.An awful band!—Britannia's mighty dead,Receives to glory his immortal shade.Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief—Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,With joyful song conduct their welcome guestTo the bright mansions of eternal rest—For those prepared who merit just applauseBy bravely dying in their country's cause.
Pennsylvania Gazette, November 8, 1759.
The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8, 1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which is related in the following verses.
The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8, 1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which is related in the following verses.
THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN
(Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764)
The Indian war was over,And Pennsylvania's townsWelcomed the blessed calm that comesWhen peace a conflict crowns.Bitter and long had been the strife,But gallant Colonel BouquetHad forced the foe to sue for grace,And named the joyful dayWhen Shawnees, Tuscarawas,Miamis, Delawares,And every band that roved the landAnd called a captive theirs—From the pathless depths of the forest,By stream and dark defile,Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,In safety to Carlisle;Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,Where Conodogwinnet flows,And the guardian ranges, north and south,In mountain pride repose.Like the wind the Colonel's orderTo hamlet and clearing flew;And mourning mothers and wives and sonsFrom banks where Delaware seaward runs,From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,And the vales where the southern hills divide,Flocked to the town, perchance to view,At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,The faces lost, but in memory fair.How strange the scene on the village greenThat morning cold and gray!To right the Indian tents were set,And in groups the dusky warriors met,While their captives clung to the captors yet,As wild and bronzed as they—In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,Some loath to part, some fain to greetThe friends of a vanished day;And, eagerly watching the tents, to leftStood mothers and sons and wives bereft,While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,The troops in their brave array.Now friends and captives mingle,And cries of joy or woeThrill the broad street as loved ones meet,Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,And back in anguish go.Among them lingered a widow—From the Suabian land was she—And one fell morning she had lostHusband and children three,All slain save the young Regina,A captive spared to be.Nine weary years had followed,But the wilderness was dumb,And never a word to her aching heartThrough friend or foe had come,And now, from Tulpehocken,Full seventy miles away,She had walked to seek her daughter,The Lord her only stay.She scanned the sun-browned maidens;But the tunic's rough disguise,The savage tongue, the forest ways,Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,And with sobs and streaming eyesShe turned to the Colonel and told himHow hopeless was her quest—Moaning, "Alas, Regina!The grave for me is best!""Nay, Madam," gently he replied,"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,And try some other test.What pleasant song or storyDid she love from your lips to hear?""O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,And she said them over and overWhile I was spinning near;And every eve, by her little bed,When the light was growing dim,I sung her to sleep, my darling!With Schmolke's beautiful hymn.""Then sing itnow," said the Colonel,And close to the captive bandHe brought the mother with her hymnFrom the far Suabian land;And with faltering voice and quivering lips,While all was hushed, she sungThe strain of lofty faith and cheerIn her rich German tongue:"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"(How near the listeners press!),Alone, yet not alone am I,Though all may deem my days go byIn utter dreariness;The Lord is still my company,I am with Him, and He with me,The solitude to bless.He speaks to me within His wordAs if His very voice I heard,And when I pray, apart,He meets me in the quiet thereWith counsel for each cross and care,And comfort for my heart.The world may say my life is lone,With every joy and blessing flownIts vision can descry;I shall not sorrow nor repine,For glorious company is mineWith God and angels nigh.As she sung, a maid of the captivesThrew back her tangled hair,And forward leaned as if to listThe lightest murmur there;Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,Her eyes grew bright and wideAs if some spell the song had cast,And, ere the low notes died,With a bound like a deer in the forestShe sprang to the singer's side,And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"Enfolding her, she cried—"My dear, dear, little Mother!"—Then swift before her kneltAs in the long, long buried daysWhen by the wood they dwelt;And, "Vater unser, der du bistIm Himmel," chanted she,The sweet "Our Father" she had learnedBeside that mother's knee;And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"That in her heart had lain:"Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"Like a child she said again—"I believe in God the Father"—Down to the blest "Amen."Stooping and clasping the maidenWhose soul the song had freed,"Now God be praised!" said the mother,"This is my child indeed!—My own, my darling Regina,Come back in my sorest need,For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"Then, while the throng was silent,And the Colonel bowed his head,With tears and glad thanksgivingsHer daughter forth she led;And the sky was lit with sunshine,And the cold earth caught its smileFor the mother and ransomed maiden,That morning in Carlisle.Edna Dean Proctor.
The Indian war was over,And Pennsylvania's townsWelcomed the blessed calm that comesWhen peace a conflict crowns.Bitter and long had been the strife,But gallant Colonel BouquetHad forced the foe to sue for grace,And named the joyful dayWhen Shawnees, Tuscarawas,Miamis, Delawares,And every band that roved the landAnd called a captive theirs—From the pathless depths of the forest,By stream and dark defile,Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,In safety to Carlisle;Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,Where Conodogwinnet flows,And the guardian ranges, north and south,In mountain pride repose.Like the wind the Colonel's orderTo hamlet and clearing flew;And mourning mothers and wives and sonsFrom banks where Delaware seaward runs,From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,And the vales where the southern hills divide,Flocked to the town, perchance to view,At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,The faces lost, but in memory fair.How strange the scene on the village greenThat morning cold and gray!To right the Indian tents were set,And in groups the dusky warriors met,While their captives clung to the captors yet,As wild and bronzed as they—In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,Some loath to part, some fain to greetThe friends of a vanished day;And, eagerly watching the tents, to leftStood mothers and sons and wives bereft,While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,The troops in their brave array.Now friends and captives mingle,And cries of joy or woeThrill the broad street as loved ones meet,Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,And back in anguish go.Among them lingered a widow—From the Suabian land was she—And one fell morning she had lostHusband and children three,All slain save the young Regina,A captive spared to be.Nine weary years had followed,But the wilderness was dumb,And never a word to her aching heartThrough friend or foe had come,And now, from Tulpehocken,Full seventy miles away,She had walked to seek her daughter,The Lord her only stay.She scanned the sun-browned maidens;But the tunic's rough disguise,The savage tongue, the forest ways,Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,And with sobs and streaming eyesShe turned to the Colonel and told himHow hopeless was her quest—Moaning, "Alas, Regina!The grave for me is best!""Nay, Madam," gently he replied,"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,And try some other test.What pleasant song or storyDid she love from your lips to hear?""O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,And she said them over and overWhile I was spinning near;And every eve, by her little bed,When the light was growing dim,I sung her to sleep, my darling!With Schmolke's beautiful hymn.""Then sing itnow," said the Colonel,And close to the captive bandHe brought the mother with her hymnFrom the far Suabian land;And with faltering voice and quivering lips,While all was hushed, she sungThe strain of lofty faith and cheerIn her rich German tongue:"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"(How near the listeners press!),Alone, yet not alone am I,Though all may deem my days go byIn utter dreariness;The Lord is still my company,I am with Him, and He with me,The solitude to bless.He speaks to me within His wordAs if His very voice I heard,And when I pray, apart,He meets me in the quiet thereWith counsel for each cross and care,And comfort for my heart.The world may say my life is lone,With every joy and blessing flownIts vision can descry;I shall not sorrow nor repine,For glorious company is mineWith God and angels nigh.As she sung, a maid of the captivesThrew back her tangled hair,And forward leaned as if to listThe lightest murmur there;Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,Her eyes grew bright and wideAs if some spell the song had cast,And, ere the low notes died,With a bound like a deer in the forestShe sprang to the singer's side,And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"Enfolding her, she cried—"My dear, dear, little Mother!"—Then swift before her kneltAs in the long, long buried daysWhen by the wood they dwelt;And, "Vater unser, der du bistIm Himmel," chanted she,The sweet "Our Father" she had learnedBeside that mother's knee;And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"That in her heart had lain:"Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"Like a child she said again—"I believe in God the Father"—Down to the blest "Amen."Stooping and clasping the maidenWhose soul the song had freed,"Now God be praised!" said the mother,"This is my child indeed!—My own, my darling Regina,Come back in my sorest need,For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"Then, while the throng was silent,And the Colonel bowed his head,With tears and glad thanksgivingsHer daughter forth she led;And the sky was lit with sunshine,And the cold earth caught its smileFor the mother and ransomed maiden,That morning in Carlisle.Edna Dean Proctor.
The Indian war was over,And Pennsylvania's townsWelcomed the blessed calm that comesWhen peace a conflict crowns.Bitter and long had been the strife,But gallant Colonel BouquetHad forced the foe to sue for grace,And named the joyful dayWhen Shawnees, Tuscarawas,Miamis, Delawares,And every band that roved the landAnd called a captive theirs—From the pathless depths of the forest,By stream and dark defile,Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,In safety to Carlisle;Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,Where Conodogwinnet flows,And the guardian ranges, north and south,In mountain pride repose.
Like the wind the Colonel's orderTo hamlet and clearing flew;And mourning mothers and wives and sonsFrom banks where Delaware seaward runs,From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,And the vales where the southern hills divide,Flocked to the town, perchance to view,At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,The faces lost, but in memory fair.
How strange the scene on the village greenThat morning cold and gray!To right the Indian tents were set,And in groups the dusky warriors met,While their captives clung to the captors yet,As wild and bronzed as they—In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,Some loath to part, some fain to greetThe friends of a vanished day;And, eagerly watching the tents, to leftStood mothers and sons and wives bereft,While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,The troops in their brave array.
Now friends and captives mingle,And cries of joy or woeThrill the broad street as loved ones meet,Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,And back in anguish go.Among them lingered a widow—From the Suabian land was she—And one fell morning she had lostHusband and children three,All slain save the young Regina,A captive spared to be.Nine weary years had followed,But the wilderness was dumb,And never a word to her aching heartThrough friend or foe had come,And now, from Tulpehocken,Full seventy miles away,She had walked to seek her daughter,The Lord her only stay.
She scanned the sun-browned maidens;But the tunic's rough disguise,The savage tongue, the forest ways,Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,And with sobs and streaming eyesShe turned to the Colonel and told himHow hopeless was her quest—Moaning, "Alas, Regina!The grave for me is best!""Nay, Madam," gently he replied,"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,And try some other test.What pleasant song or storyDid she love from your lips to hear?""O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,And she said them over and overWhile I was spinning near;And every eve, by her little bed,When the light was growing dim,I sung her to sleep, my darling!With Schmolke's beautiful hymn.""Then sing itnow," said the Colonel,And close to the captive bandHe brought the mother with her hymnFrom the far Suabian land;And with faltering voice and quivering lips,While all was hushed, she sungThe strain of lofty faith and cheerIn her rich German tongue:
"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"(How near the listeners press!),Alone, yet not alone am I,Though all may deem my days go byIn utter dreariness;The Lord is still my company,I am with Him, and He with me,The solitude to bless.
He speaks to me within His wordAs if His very voice I heard,And when I pray, apart,He meets me in the quiet thereWith counsel for each cross and care,And comfort for my heart.
The world may say my life is lone,With every joy and blessing flownIts vision can descry;I shall not sorrow nor repine,For glorious company is mineWith God and angels nigh.
As she sung, a maid of the captivesThrew back her tangled hair,And forward leaned as if to listThe lightest murmur there;Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,Her eyes grew bright and wideAs if some spell the song had cast,And, ere the low notes died,With a bound like a deer in the forestShe sprang to the singer's side,And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"Enfolding her, she cried—"My dear, dear, little Mother!"—Then swift before her kneltAs in the long, long buried daysWhen by the wood they dwelt;And, "Vater unser, der du bistIm Himmel," chanted she,The sweet "Our Father" she had learnedBeside that mother's knee;And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"That in her heart had lain:"Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"Like a child she said again—"I believe in God the Father"—Down to the blest "Amen."Stooping and clasping the maidenWhose soul the song had freed,"Now God be praised!" said the mother,"This is my child indeed!—My own, my darling Regina,Come back in my sorest need,For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"Then, while the throng was silent,And the Colonel bowed his head,With tears and glad thanksgivingsHer daughter forth she led;And the sky was lit with sunshine,And the cold earth caught its smileFor the mother and ransomed maiden,That morning in Carlisle.
Edna Dean Proctor.
A PROPHECY
[1764]
Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,—If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,As it has done the last sad passing year,Made the New World in anger shed the tear,—Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,And make lost Liberty once more to reign.But let them live, as they would choose to be,Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crownWhich first has raised them, though now pulls them down;If but the rights of subjects they receive,'Tis all they ask—or all a crown can give.Arthur Lee (?).
Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,—If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,As it has done the last sad passing year,Made the New World in anger shed the tear,—Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,And make lost Liberty once more to reign.But let them live, as they would choose to be,Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crownWhich first has raised them, though now pulls them down;If but the rights of subjects they receive,'Tis all they ask—or all a crown can give.Arthur Lee (?).
Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,—If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,As it has done the last sad passing year,Made the New World in anger shed the tear,—Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,And make lost Liberty once more to reign.But let them live, as they would choose to be,Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crownWhich first has raised them, though now pulls them down;If but the rights of subjects they receive,'Tis all they ask—or all a crown can give.
Arthur Lee (?).
FLAWLESS HIS HEART
Flawless his heart and tempered to the coreWho, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave,First left behind him the firm-footed shore,And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar,Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave,Of thought and action the mysterious door,Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave:Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun,And strange stars from beneath the horizon won,And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave:High-hearted surely he;But bolder they who first off-castTheir moorings from the habitable PastAnd ventured chartless on the seaOf storm-engendering Liberty:For all earth's width of waters is a span,And their convulsed existence mere repose,Matched with the unstable heart of man,Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows,Open to every wind of sect or clan,And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows.James Russell Lowell.
Flawless his heart and tempered to the coreWho, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave,First left behind him the firm-footed shore,And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar,Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave,Of thought and action the mysterious door,Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave:Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun,And strange stars from beneath the horizon won,And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave:High-hearted surely he;But bolder they who first off-castTheir moorings from the habitable PastAnd ventured chartless on the seaOf storm-engendering Liberty:For all earth's width of waters is a span,And their convulsed existence mere repose,Matched with the unstable heart of man,Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows,Open to every wind of sect or clan,And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows.James Russell Lowell.
Flawless his heart and tempered to the coreWho, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave,First left behind him the firm-footed shore,And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar,Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave,Of thought and action the mysterious door,Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave:Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun,And strange stars from beneath the horizon won,And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave:High-hearted surely he;But bolder they who first off-castTheir moorings from the habitable PastAnd ventured chartless on the seaOf storm-engendering Liberty:For all earth's width of waters is a span,And their convulsed existence mere repose,Matched with the unstable heart of man,Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows,Open to every wind of sect or clan,And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows.
James Russell Lowell.
THE COMING OF DISCONTENT
The close of the struggle with the French for the possession of the continent may be fairly said to mark the beginning of that series of aggressions on the part of England which ended in the revolt of her colonies. True there had been before that arbitrary and tyrannical royal governors, and absurdly perverse enactments on the part of the Lords of Trade; but not until the French troubles had been disposed of did the British government bend its energies seriously to regulating the affairs of a people which it considered fractious and turbulent. In theVirginia Gazettefor May 2, 1766, appeared one of the first of those songs, afterwards so numerous, which expressed the discontent of the colonies under this régime.
The close of the struggle with the French for the possession of the continent may be fairly said to mark the beginning of that series of aggressions on the part of England which ended in the revolt of her colonies. True there had been before that arbitrary and tyrannical royal governors, and absurdly perverse enactments on the part of the Lords of Trade; but not until the French troubles had been disposed of did the British government bend its energies seriously to regulating the affairs of a people which it considered fractious and turbulent. In theVirginia Gazettefor May 2, 1766, appeared one of the first of those songs, afterwards so numerous, which expressed the discontent of the colonies under this régime.
THE VIRGINIA SONG
[May 2, 1766]
Sure never was picture drawn more to the life,Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife,Than America copies and loves Britain's sons,Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns,"Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those menWho always are ready, steady, boys, steady,To fight for their freedom again and again."Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil,Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle;And who's so absurd to deny us the name,Since true British blood flows in every vein?"Hearts of Oak," etc.Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm,Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm;Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see,Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words arebe free!"Hearts of Oak," etc.To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down,But hope we may call Magna Charta our own.Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree,Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free."Hearts of Oak," etc.Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe,Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe;Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess,Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S."Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those menWho fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon,To stop all oppression, again and again."On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear,What Englishmen ought we Americans dare;Though tempests and terrors around us we see,Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free."Hearts of Oak," etc.With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine,Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine;Let us set an example, what all men should be,And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free.""Hearts of Oak," etc.
Sure never was picture drawn more to the life,Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife,Than America copies and loves Britain's sons,Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns,"Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those menWho always are ready, steady, boys, steady,To fight for their freedom again and again."Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil,Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle;And who's so absurd to deny us the name,Since true British blood flows in every vein?"Hearts of Oak," etc.Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm,Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm;Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see,Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words arebe free!"Hearts of Oak," etc.To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down,But hope we may call Magna Charta our own.Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree,Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free."Hearts of Oak," etc.Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe,Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe;Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess,Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S."Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those menWho fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon,To stop all oppression, again and again."On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear,What Englishmen ought we Americans dare;Though tempests and terrors around us we see,Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free."Hearts of Oak," etc.With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine,Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine;Let us set an example, what all men should be,And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free.""Hearts of Oak," etc.
Sure never was picture drawn more to the life,Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife,Than America copies and loves Britain's sons,Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns,"Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those menWho always are ready, steady, boys, steady,To fight for their freedom again and again."
Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil,Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle;And who's so absurd to deny us the name,Since true British blood flows in every vein?"Hearts of Oak," etc.
Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm,Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm;Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see,Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words arebe free!"Hearts of Oak," etc.
To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down,But hope we may call Magna Charta our own.Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree,Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free."Hearts of Oak," etc.
Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe,Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe;Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess,Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S."Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those menWho fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon,To stop all oppression, again and again."
On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear,What Englishmen ought we Americans dare;Though tempests and terrors around us we see,Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free."Hearts of Oak," etc.
With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine,Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine;Let us set an example, what all men should be,And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free.""Hearts of Oak," etc.
In 1766 William Pitt, perhaps the most enlightened friend America had in England, became Prime Minister, and adopted toward the colonies a policy so conciliatory that it occasioned much disgust in England—as is evident from the following verses which appeared originally in theGentleman's Magazine.
In 1766 William Pitt, perhaps the most enlightened friend America had in England, became Prime Minister, and adopted toward the colonies a policy so conciliatory that it occasioned much disgust in England—as is evident from the following verses which appeared originally in theGentleman's Magazine.
THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
OR, THE OLD WOMAN TAUGHT WISDOM
[1767]
Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out,Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a —— rout,But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told,Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold.The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head,That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread:Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance;But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed,Nor should people reckon without their good host;The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to,And pray, what in this case could the old woman do?In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause,That the young one was able; her duty, the laws;Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse;But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse.Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty,She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty,That other folks' children were kept by their friends,And that some folks loved people but for their own ends."Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter?A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;""Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work,The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk.""She be ——," says the farmer, and to her he goes,First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose,"Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say;I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray."Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here!You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear;Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon,You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden.""Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply?But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;""Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree,You must surely be right,if you're guided by me."Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down,While the absolute farmer went on with a frown,"Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends!There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends.""No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied:"But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."
Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out,Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a —— rout,But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told,Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold.The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head,That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread:Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance;But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed,Nor should people reckon without their good host;The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to,And pray, what in this case could the old woman do?In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause,That the young one was able; her duty, the laws;Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse;But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse.Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty,She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty,That other folks' children were kept by their friends,And that some folks loved people but for their own ends."Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter?A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;""Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work,The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk.""She be ——," says the farmer, and to her he goes,First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose,"Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say;I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray."Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here!You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear;Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon,You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden.""Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply?But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;""Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree,You must surely be right,if you're guided by me."Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down,While the absolute farmer went on with a frown,"Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends!There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends.""No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied:"But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."
Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out,Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a —— rout,But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told,Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold.
The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head,That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread:Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance;But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.
For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed,Nor should people reckon without their good host;The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to,And pray, what in this case could the old woman do?
In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause,That the young one was able; her duty, the laws;Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse;But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse.
Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty,She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty,That other folks' children were kept by their friends,And that some folks loved people but for their own ends.
"Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter?A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;""Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work,The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk."
"She be ——," says the farmer, and to her he goes,First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose,"Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say;I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray.
"Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here!You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear;Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon,You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden."
"Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply?But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;""Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree,You must surely be right,if you're guided by me."
Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down,While the absolute farmer went on with a frown,"Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends!There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends."
"No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied:"But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."
But Pitt was soon incapacitated by illness from taking any active part in the government, and Charles Townshend, chancellor of the exchequer, was able to pass his "port bills," and other oppressive measures. Many prominent Americans, among them Samuel Adams, decided that the colonies must be independent.
But Pitt was soon incapacitated by illness from taking any active part in the government, and Charles Townshend, chancellor of the exchequer, was able to pass his "port bills," and other oppressive measures. Many prominent Americans, among them Samuel Adams, decided that the colonies must be independent.
A SONG
[January 26, 1769]
Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band,In the cause of our country who join heart and hand;Fair Freedom invites—she cries out, "Agree!And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me."Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain:We always are ready—Steady, boys, steady—To give them our voices again and again.With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree,Unite all the good—and united are we:But still be the lot of the villains disgrace,Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face.Hearts of oak, etc.See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws!His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws—As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk,My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk.Hearts of oak, etc.First—the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause,Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause—Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name,And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame.Hearts of oak, etc.To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound!With health and success may his goodness be crown'd:May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er—For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor!Hearts of oak, etc.What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free,But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey?"Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here!Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere."Hearts of oak, etc.For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd,Let the name and applauses of Walton go round:His prudence attracts—but his free, honest soulGives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole.Hearts of oak, etc.Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried—Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride:Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue,With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true.Hearts of oak, etc.New York Journal, January 26, 1769.
Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band,In the cause of our country who join heart and hand;Fair Freedom invites—she cries out, "Agree!And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me."Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain:We always are ready—Steady, boys, steady—To give them our voices again and again.With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree,Unite all the good—and united are we:But still be the lot of the villains disgrace,Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face.Hearts of oak, etc.See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws!His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws—As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk,My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk.Hearts of oak, etc.First—the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause,Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause—Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name,And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame.Hearts of oak, etc.To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound!With health and success may his goodness be crown'd:May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er—For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor!Hearts of oak, etc.What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free,But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey?"Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here!Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere."Hearts of oak, etc.For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd,Let the name and applauses of Walton go round:His prudence attracts—but his free, honest soulGives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole.Hearts of oak, etc.Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried—Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride:Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue,With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true.Hearts of oak, etc.New York Journal, January 26, 1769.
Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band,In the cause of our country who join heart and hand;Fair Freedom invites—she cries out, "Agree!And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me."Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain:We always are ready—Steady, boys, steady—To give them our voices again and again.
With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree,Unite all the good—and united are we:But still be the lot of the villains disgrace,Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face.Hearts of oak, etc.
See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws!His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws—As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk,My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk.Hearts of oak, etc.
First—the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause,Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause—Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name,And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame.Hearts of oak, etc.
To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound!With health and success may his goodness be crown'd:May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er—For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor!Hearts of oak, etc.
What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free,But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey?"Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here!Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere."Hearts of oak, etc.
For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd,Let the name and applauses of Walton go round:His prudence attracts—but his free, honest soulGives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole.Hearts of oak, etc.
Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried—Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride:Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue,With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true.Hearts of oak, etc.
New York Journal, January 26, 1769.
Associations known as Sons of Liberty were organized in the larger cities, and in February, 1770, the first Liberty Pole in America was raised at New York city, in what is now City Hall Park. A struggle ensued with the British troops, during which the pole was twice cut down, but it was hooped with iron and set up a third time. A Tory versifier celebrated the event in a burlesque cantata, from which the following description of the pole is taken.
Associations known as Sons of Liberty were organized in the larger cities, and in February, 1770, the first Liberty Pole in America was raised at New York city, in what is now City Hall Park. A struggle ensued with the British troops, during which the pole was twice cut down, but it was hooped with iron and set up a third time. A Tory versifier celebrated the event in a burlesque cantata, from which the following description of the pole is taken.
THE LIBERTY POLE
[February, 1770]