VIII. THE WAR ON THE WATER…

VIII. THE WAR ON THE WATER

At the outbreak of the Revolution, the colonies had no navy, but a number of cruisers and privateers were soon fitted out, and by the end of 1776 nearly three hundred British vessels had fallen into the hands of the Americans. This activity was kept up during the succeeding year, the cruise of the Fair American, as described in the old ballad of that name, being one of the most noteworthy.

THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN

[1777]

The twenty-second of August, Before the close of day, All hands on board of our privateer, We got her under weigh; We kept the Eastern shore along, For forty leagues or more, Then our departure took for sea, From the isle of Mauhegan shore.

Bold Hawthorne was commander, A man of real worth, Old England's cruel tyranny Induced him to go forth; She, with relentless fury, Was plundering all our coast, And thought, because her strength was great, Our glorious cause was lost.

Yet boast not, haughty Britons, Of power and dignity, By land thy conquering armies, Thy matchless strength at sea; Since taught by numerous instances Americans can fight, With valor can equip their stand, Your armies put to flight.

Now farewell to fair America, Farewell our friends and wives; We trust in Heaven's peculiar care For to protect their lives; To prosper our intended cruise Upon the raging main, And to preserve our dearest friends Till we return again.

The wind it being leading, It bore us on our way, As far unto the southward As the Gulf of Florida; Where we fell in with a British ship, Bound homeward from the main; We gave her two bow-chasers, And she returned the same.

We haulèd up our courses, And so prepared for fight; The contest held four glasses, Until the dusk of night; Then having sprung our main-mast, And had so large a sea, We dropped astern and left our chase Till the returning day.

Next morn we fished our main-mast, The ship still being nigh, All hands made for engaging, Our chance once more to try; But wind and sea being boisterous, Our cannon would not bear, We thought it quite imprudent And so we left her there.

We cruisèd to the eastward, Near the coast of Portugal, In longitude of twenty-seven We saw a lofty sail; We gave her chase, and soon perceived She was a British snow Standing for fair America, With troops for General Howe.

Our captain did inspect her With glasses, and he said, "My boys, she means to fight us, But be you not afraid; All hands repair to quarters, See everything is clear, We'll give her a broadside, my boys, As soon as she comes near."

She was prepared with nettings, And her men were well secured, And bore directly for us, And put us close on board; When the cannon roared like thunder, And the muskets fired amain, But soon we were alongside And grappled to her chain.

And now the scene it altered, The cannon ceased to roar, We fought with swords and boarding-pikes One glass or something more, Till British pride and glory No longer dared to stay, But cut the Yankee grapplings, And quickly bore away.

Our case was not so desperate As plainly might appear; Yet sudden death did enter On board our privateer. Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons, The valiant and the brave, Fell glorious in the contest, And met a watery grave.

Ten other men were wounded Among our warlike crew, With them our noble captain, To whom all praise is due; To him and all our officers Let's give a hearty cheer; Success to fair America And our good privateer.

The Americans were not without their losses, and one of the most serious occurred early in 1778. On the morning of March 7, the 32-gun frigate Randolph, Captain Nicholas Biddle, while cruising off Barbadoes, fell in with the English 64-gun ship of the line Yarmouth, and attacked immediately. The fight had lasted about an hour when the Randolph's magazine was in some way fired, and the ship blew up. Of the crew of three hundred and fifteen, only four were saved.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE

[March 7, 1778]

What distant thunders rend the skies, What clouds of smoke in volumes rise, What means this dreadful roar! Is from his base Vesuvius thrown, Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down, Or Etna's self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear; And lo! two hostile ships appear, Red lightnings round them glow: The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four, The Randolph thirty-two--no more-- And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams Shall coast along the land of dreams, The islands of the dead! But fate, that parts them on the deep, Shall save the Briton, still to weep His ancient honors fled.

Say, who commands that dismal blaze, Where yonder starry streamer plays; Does Mars with Jove engage! 'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires, Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all; Her bravest sons expire; Did Mars himself approach so nigh, Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly The Randolph's fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew, "And shall we strike to thirty-two" (Said Hector, stained with gore); "Shall Britain's flag to these descend-- Rise, and the glorious conflict end, Britons, I ask no more!"

He spoke--they charged their cannon round, Again the vaulted heavens resound, The Randolph bore it all, Then fixed her pointed cannons true-- Away the unwieldy vengeance flew; Britain, the warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay, Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away, Her boldest heroes dead-- She saw amidst her floating slain The conquering Randolph stem the main-- She saw, she turned, and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine, Dear Biddle, had the powers divine Been kind as thou wert brave; But fate, who doomed thee to expire, Prepared an arrow tipped with fire, And marked a watery grave,

And in that hour when conquest came Winged at his ship a pointed flame That not even he could shun-- The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled, The bursting Randolph ruin spread, And lost what honor won.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Among the most successful of the Yankee privateers was the Providence, and her most famous exploit was performed in July, 1779, when she attacked a fleet of merchantmen, under convoy of a ship of the line and some cruisers, and captured ten prizes, nine of which, valued at over a million dollars, were got safely to Boston. The Providence was commanded by Abraham Whipple, the hero of the Gaspee exploit and of a hundred others.

THE YANKEE PRIVATEER

[July, 1779]

Come listen and I'll tell you How first I went to sea, To fight against the British And earn our liberty. We shipped with Cap'n Whipple Who never knew a fear, The Captain of the Providence, The Yankee Privateer.

We sailed and we sailed And made good cheer, There were many pretty men On the Yankee Privateer.

The British Lord High Admiral He wished old Whipple harm, He wrote that he would hang him At the end of his yard arm. "My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back, "It seems to me it's clear That if you want to hang him, You must catch your Privateer."

We sailed and we sailed And made good cheer, For not a British frigate Could come near the Privateer.

We sailed to the south'ard, And nothing did we meet, Till we found three British frigates And their West Indian fleet. Old Whipple shut our ports As we crawled up near, And he sent us all below On the Yankee Privateer.

So slowly he sailed We dropped to the rear, And not a soul suspected The Yankee Privateer.

At night we put the lights out And forward we ran And silently we boarded The biggest merchantman. We knocked down the watch,-- And the lubbers shook for fear, She's a prize without a shot To the Yankee Privateer.

We sent the prize north While we lay near And all day we slept On the bold Privateer.

For ten nights we followed, And ere the moon rose, Each night a prize we'd taken Beneath the Lion's nose. When the British looked to see Why their ships should disappear, They found they had in convoy A Yankee Privateer.

But we sailed and sailed And made good cheer! Not a coward was on board Of the Yankee Privateer.

The biggest British frigate Bore round to give us chase, But though he was the fleeter Old Whipple wouldn't race, Till he'd raked her fore and aft, For the lubbers couldn't steer, Then he showed them the heels Of the Yankee Privateer.

Then we sailed and we sailed And we made good cheer, For not a British frigate Could come near the Privateer.

Then northward we sailed To the town we all know, And there lay our prizes All anchored in a row; And welcome were we To our friends so dear, And we shared a million dollars On the bold Privateer.

We'd sailed and we'd sailed And we made good cheer, We had all full pockets On the bold Privateer.

Then we each manned a ship And our sails we unfurled, And we bore the Stars and Stripes O'er the oceans of the world. From the proud flag of Britain We swept the seas clear, And we earned our independence On the Yankee Privateer.

Then landsmen and sailors, One more cheer! Here is three times three For the Yankee Privateer!

ARTHUR HALE.

The achievements of other American naval captains were soon eclipsed by those of John Paul Jones, a Scotch sailor, settled in Virginia, who, at the outbreak of the war, offered his services to Congress. In 1776, on board the Alfred, in the Delaware River, he raised the first flag of the Revolution,--a pine tree, with a rattlesnake coiled at the foot, and the motto, "Don't tread on me."

PAUL JONES

A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer, Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover, For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer," And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over, In their channel and coast, He scattered their host, And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast, And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fear Of Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land, Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor, He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command, And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor, 'Twas his hand that raised The first flag that blazed, And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd, For hundreds of foes met a watery bier From Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crew That strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered; Remember his valor at proud Flamborough, When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard; Oh! he robbed of their store The vessels sent o'er To feed all the Tories and foes on our shore, He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revere The name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.

In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight. With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was fitting out for the following year.

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR

[1778]

'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,-- With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale, On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.

The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.

The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three, Her spanker and her standing jib--the courses being free; "Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!" And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? 'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past-- "Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!" Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet," And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet, And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

The new squadron sailed for the English coast in the summer of 1779. It consisted of the flagship--a clumsy old Indiaman called the Duras, whose name Jones changed to Bon Homme Richard--and four consorts. The summer was spent in cruising about the British coast and so much damage was done that Paul Jones became a sort of bogey to all England.

PAUL JONES--A NEW SONG

Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four, That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er, For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones, As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.

Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue, At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too, The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoans The losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.

How happy for England, would Fortune but sweep At once all her treacherous foes to the deep; For the land under burthens most bitterly groans, To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.

To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend, In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend, May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd, Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!

If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd, The Leaders in office to shove from the board; May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bones Of Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!

On September 23, 1779, the little squadron sighted a British fleet of forty sail off Flamborough Head. They were merchantmen bound for the Baltic under convoy of the Serapis, forty-four, and the Countess of Scarborough, twenty. Captain Jones instantly gave chase, ordering his consorts to form in line of battle, but the Alliance, whose command had been given to a Frenchman, ran off to some distance, leaving the Richard to attack the Serapis single-handed, while the Pallas took care of the Scarborough.

PAUL JONES

[September 23, 1779]

An American frigate from Baltimore came, Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name; Went to cruise in the channel of old England, With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.

We had not sail'd long before we did espy A large forty-four, and a twenty close by: These two warlike ships, full laden with store, Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.

At the hour of twelve, Pierce came alongside. With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried; "Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before, Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."

Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run: Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;" When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen, We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.

We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot, Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot, And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore, Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.

Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came, "Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;" Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride, "If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."

At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand: The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down, The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake, Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.

Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize, A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise; They are both noble vessels, well laden with store! We will toss off the can to our country once more.

God help the poor widows, who shortly must weep For the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep! We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand, Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.

The Serapis was greatly superior to the Richard in armament and fighting qualities, but Jones succeeded in running his vessel into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their yardarms interlocked and both ships were soon covered with dead and wounded. At the end of two hours, the Serapis was on fire; but the Richard was already sinking. Half an hour later the Serapis surrendered. The Richard was kept afloat with great difficulty until morning, when she sank.

THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS

[September 23, 1779]

O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet, The guardian of a numerous fleet, Serapis from the Baltic came: A ship of less tremendous force Sail'd by her side the self-same course, Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.

And now their native coasts appear, Britannia's hills their summits rear Above the German main; Fond to suppose their dangers o'er, They southward coast along the shore, Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.

Full forty guns Serapis bore, And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four, Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars-- What flag that rides the Gallic seas Shall dare attack such piles as these, Design'd for tumults and for wars!

Now from the top-mast's giddy height A seaman cry'd--"Four sail in sight Approach with favoring gales." Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet, Stood off to sea, these ships to meet, And closely brac'd his shivering sails.

With him advanc'd the Countess bold, Like a black tar in wars grown old: And now these floating piles drew nigh. But, muse, unfold what chief of fame In the other warlike squadron came, Whose standards at his mast-head fly.

'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led As bold a crew as ever bled Upon the sky-surrounded main; The standards of the western world Were to the willing winds unfurl'd, Denying Britain's tyrant reign.

The Good-Man-Richard led the line; The Alliance next: with these combine The Gallic ship they Pallas call, The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame; These to attack the Britons came-- But two accomplish'd all.

Now Phoebus sought his pearly bed: But who can tell the scenes of dread, The horrors of that fatal night! Close up these floating castles came: The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame; Serapis trembled at the sight.

She felt the fury of her ball: Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall; The decks were strew'd with slain: Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd; And, while the black artillery flash'd, Loud thunders shook the main.

Alas! that mortals should employ Such murdering engines to destroy That frame by heaven so nicely join'd; Alas! that e'er the god decreed That brother should by brother bleed, And pour'd such madness in the mind.

But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear, The rights of man demand your care: For these you dare the greedy waves. No tyrant, on destruction bent, Has plann'd thy conquest--thou art sent To humble tyrants and their slaves.

See!--dread Serapis flames again-- And art thou, Jones, among the slain, And sunk to Neptune's caves below?-- He lives--though crowds around him fall, Still he, unhurt, survives them all; Almost alone he fights the foe.

And can your ship these strokes sustain? Behold your brave companions slain, All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace; STRIKE, OR BE SUNK--the Briton cries-- SINK IF YOU CAN--the chief replies, Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.

Then to the side three guns he drew (Almost deserted by his crew), And charg'd them deep with woe; By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls; His main-mast totters--down it falls-- O'erwhelming half below.

Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield, But scarce his secret fears conceal'd, And thus was heard to cry-- "With hell, not mortals, I contend; What art thou--human, or a fiend, That dost my force defy?

"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"-- So call'd bold Pearson to his crew; But call'd, alas! in vain; Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead; Some to their deep recesses fled, And hosts were shrouded in the main.

Distress'd, forsaken, and alone, He haul'd his tatter'd standard down, And yielded to his gallant foe; Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,-- Thus both their haughty colors struck, Confessing what the brave can do.

But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy These ships possest so gloriously, Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray: Thy barque that bore the conquering flame, That the proud Briton overcame, Even she forsook thee on thy way;

For when the morn began to shine, Fatal to her, the ocean brine Pour'd through each spacious wound; Quick in the deep she disappear'd; But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd, With conquest and with glory crown'd.

Go on, great man, to scourge the foe, And bid these haughty Britons know They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend; Those Stars that, veil'd in dark attire, Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire, But radiant now ascend.

Bend to the Stars that flaming rise In western, not in eastern, skies, Fair Freedom's reign restored-- So when the Magi, come from far, Beheld the God-attending Star, They trembled and ador'd.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Another remarkable action was that between the Hyder Ali and the General Monk. The latter, a cruiser mounting twenty nine-pounders, had been harassing the American shipping in Delaware Bay, and the merchants of Philadelphia finally equipped the Hyder Ali, an old merchantman, with sixteen six-pounders, put Joshua Barney in command and started him after the British ship.

BARNEY'S INVITATION

[April, 1782]

Come all ye lads who know no fear, To wealth and honor with me steer In the Hyder Ali privateer, Commanded by brave Barney.

She's new and true, and tight and sound, Well rigged aloft, and all well found-- Come away and be with laurel crowned, Away--and leave your lasses.

Accept our terms without delay, And make your fortunes while you may, Such offers are not every day In the power of the jolly sailor.

Success and fame attend the brave, But death the coward and the slave, Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave, To seek the bold invaders.

Come, then, and take a cruising bout, Our ship sails well, there is no doubt, She has been tried both in and out, And answers expectation.

Let no proud foes whom Europe bore, Distress our trade, insult our shore-- Teach them to know their reign is o'er, Bold Philadelphia sailors!

We'll teach them how to sail so near, Or to venture on the Delaware, When we in warlike trim appear And cruise without Henlopen.

Who cannot wounds and battle dare Shall never clasp the blooming fair; The brave alone their charms should share, The brave are their protectors.

With hand and heart united all, Prepared to conquer or to fall, Attend, my lads, to honor's call, Embark in our Hyder Ali.

From an Eastern prince she takes her name, Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame, Usurping Britons brought to shame, His country's wrongs avenging;

See, on her stern the waving stars-- Inured to blood, inured to wars, Come, enter quick, my jolly tars, To scourge these warlike Britons.

Here's grog enough--then drink a bout, I know your hearts are firm and stout; American blood will never give out, And often we have proved it.

Though stormy oceans round us roll, We'll keep a firm undaunted soul, Befriended by the cheering bowl, Sworn foes to melancholy:

When timorous landsmen lurk on shore, 'Tis ours to go where cannons roar-- On a coasting cruise we'll go once more, Despisers of all danger;

And Fortune still, who crowns the brave, Shall guard us over the gloomy wave; A fearful heart betrays the knave-- Success to the Hyder Ali.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The Hyder Ali sailed down the bay April 8, 1782, and met the Englishman near the capes. By skilful manoeuvring, Barney was able to rake his antagonist; then, lashing fast, poured several broadsides in rapid succession into the enemy, who struck their colors at the end of thirty minutes.

SONG

ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY OVER THE SHIP GENERAL MONK

[April 8, 1782]

O'er the waste of waters cruising, Long the General Monk had reigned; All subduing, all reducing, None her lawless rage restrained: Many a brave and hearty fellow Yielding to this warlike foe, When her guns began to bellow Struck his humbled colors low.

But grown bold with long successes, Leaving the wide watery way, She, a stranger to distresses, Came to cruise within Cape May: "Now we soon (said Captain Rogers) Shall their men of commerce meet; In our hold we'll have them lodgers, We shall capture half their fleet.

"Lo! I see their van appearing-- Back our topsails to the mast-- They toward us full are steering With a gentle western blast: I've a list of all their cargoes, All their guns, and all their men: I am sure these modern Argos Can't escape us one in ten:

"Yonder comes the Charming Sally Sailing with the General Greene-- First we'll fight the Hyder Ali, Taking her is taking them: She intends to give us battle, Bearing down with all her sail-- Now, boys, let our cannon rattle! To take her we cannot fail.

"Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder, Soon shall terrify this foe; We shall maul her, we shall wound her, Bringing rebel colors low."-- While he thus anticipated Conquests that he could not gain, He in the Cape May channel waited For the ship that caused his pain.

Captain Barney then preparing, Thus addressed his gallant crew-- "Now, brave lads, be bold and daring, Let your hearts be firm and true; This is a proud English cruiser, Roving up and down the main, We must fight her--must reduce her, Though our decks be strewed with slain.

"Let who will be the survivor, We must conquer or must die, We must take her up the river, Whate'er comes of you or I: Though she shows most formidable With her eighteen pointed nines, And her quarters clad in sable, Let us balk her proud designs.

"With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixes We will face that daring band; Let no dangers damp your courage, Nothing can the brave withstand. Fighting for your country's honor, Now to gallant deeds aspire; Helmsman, bear us down upon her, Gunner, give the word to fire!"

Then yardarm and yardarm meeting, Strait began the dismal fray, Cannon mouths, each other greeting, Belched their smoky flames away: Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot, That from Barney's cannons flew, Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top, Killed and wounded half her crew.

Captain Rogers strove to rally But they from their quarters fled, While the roaring Hyder Ali Covered o'er his decks with dead. When from their tops their dead men tumbled, And the streams of blood did flow, Then their proudest hopes were humbled By their brave inferior foe.

All aghast, and all confounded, They beheld their champions fall, And their captain, sorely wounded, Bade them quick for quarters call. Then the Monk's proud flag descended, And her cannon ceased to roar; By her crew no more defended, She confessed the contest o'er.

Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses, You have humbled one proud foe, No brave action this surpasses, Fame shall tell the nation so-- Thus be Britain's woes completed, Thus abridged her cruel reign, Till she ever, thus defeated, Yields the sceptre of the main.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The last naval action of the war occurred December 19, 1782, when the American ship, South Carolina, forty guns, was chased and captured, off the Delaware, by the British ships Quebec, Diomede, and Astrea, carrying ninety-eight guns. A few days later a ballad describing the affair appeared in the loyalist papers as a letter "from a dejected Jonathan, a prisoner taken in the South Carolina, to his brother Ned at Philadelphia."

THE SOUTH CAROLINA

[December 19, 1782]

My dear brother Ned, We are knock'd on the head, No more let America boast; We may all go to bed, And that's enough said, For the South Carolina we've lost.

The pride of our eyes, I swear is a prize, You never will see her again, Unless thro' surprise, You are brought where she lies, A prisoner from the false main.

Oh Lord! what a sight!-- I was struck with affright, When the Diomede's shot round us fell, I feared that in spite, They'd have slain us outright, And sent us directly to h--l.

The Quebec did fire, Or I'm a curs'd liar, And the Astrea came up apace; We could not retire From the confounded fire, They all were so eager in chase.

The Diomede's shot Was damnation hot, She was several times in a blaze; It was not my lot To go then to pot, But I veow, I was struck with amaze.

And Ned, may I die, Or be pok'd in a sty, If ever I venture again Where bullets do fly, And the wounded do cry, Tormented with anguish and pain.

The Hope, I can tell, And the brig Constance fell, I swear, and I veow, in our sight; The first I can say, Was taken by day, But the latter was taken at night.

I die to relate What has been our fate, How sadly our navies are shrunk; The pride of our State Begins to abate, For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.

The Congress must bend, We shall fall in the end, For the curs'd British sarpents are tough; But, I think as you find, I have enough penn'd Of such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.

Yet how vexing to find We are left all behind, That by sad disappointment we're cross'd; Ah, fortune unkind! Thou afflicted'st my mind, When the South Carolina we lost.

Our enemy vile, Cunning Digby does smile, Is pleasèd at our mischance; He useth each wile Our fleets to beguile, And to check our commerce with France.

No more as a friend, Our ships to defend, Of South Carolina we boast; As a foe in the end, She will us attend, For the South Carolina we've lost.

IX. NEW YORK AND THE "NEUTRAL GROUND"

For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth, Sir Henry Clinton remained cooped up in New York, while Washington, established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him. The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put to work on the fortifications.

SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES

[1779]

Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true, Here are axes and shovels, and something to do! For the sake of our King, Come labor and sing. You left all you had for his honor and glory, And he will remember the suffering Tory. We have, it is true, Some small work to do; But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day, And never regard what the rebels may say, But throw off your jerkins and labor away.

To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall, To pull down old houses and dig the canal, To build and destroy, Be this your employ, In the daytime to work at our fortifications, And steal in the night from the rebels your rations. The King wants your aid, Not empty parade; Advance to your places, ye men of long faces, Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces; This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.

Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer, The French and the rebels are coming next summer, And the forts we must build Though the Tories are killed. Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King, For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing. If York we can hold, I'll have you enroll'd; And after you're dead, your names shall be read, As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled, And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.

'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations, And be left to be hanged in their capitulations. Then scour up your mortars, And stand to your quarters, 'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run, They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun; Their hearts should not fail 'em, No balls will assail 'em, Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces, For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not, Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington, nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by storm.

THE STORMING OF STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass, Night on the stars of their battle-flag, Threading the maze of the dark morass Under the frown of the Thunder Crag;

Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps, Trim in their trappings of buff and blue, Silent, they skirted the rugged shore, Grim in the promise of work to do.

"Cross ye the ford to the moated rock! Let not a whisper your march betray! Out with the flint from the musket lock! Now! let the bayonet find the way!"

"Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear. Swift came the shot of the waking foe. Bright flashed the axe of the Pioneer Smashing the abatis, blow on blow.

Little they tarried for British might! Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers! Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height, Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!

Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once more Sentinel giants of Freedom's throne, Massive and proud! to the Eastern shore Bellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"

Echo our cheers for the Men of old! Shout for the Hero who led his band Braving the death that his heart foretold Over the parapet, "spear in hand!"

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

WAYNE AT STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide, Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide, Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird, Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred. Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest; Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.

Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fen File upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men? Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred; Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard; Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height, Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.

Hark,--the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms! Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry, To arms! Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare; Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air: Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are set Now at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!

Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall, Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball; Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,-- Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride! Forward, my braves! he cries, and the heroes hearten again; Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!

Die!--did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime? Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime! Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar, From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore; But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more bright Than his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours with her.

AARON BURR'S WOOING

From the commandant's quarters on Westchester height The blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight: On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen, But the redcoats are wary--the Hudson's between. Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon--'twill be dark; 'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!" And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low, And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"

Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed, Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed, Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore. Not a word--not a plash of the thick-muffled oar! Once across, once again in the seat and away-- Five leagues are soon over when love has the say; And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path know To the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.

Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade, Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade, Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face. With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace; Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall. Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small, And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow-- Half in smiles, half in tears--Theodosia Prevost.

Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone! What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone, Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's view Like this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu? She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear, For the daring that brings him a night-rider here; British gallants by day through her doors come and go, But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.

Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist, When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist? Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast, And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past-- But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day; Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may, When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe, He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton retreated toward Elizabethtown.

THE MODERN JONAS

[June 23, 1780]

You know there goes a tale, How Jonas went on board a whale, Once, for a frolic; And how the whale Set sail And got the cholic; And, after a great splutter, Spew'd him up upon the coast, Just like woodcock on a toast, With trail and butter.

There also goes a joke, How Clinton went on board the Duke Count Rochambeau to fight; As he didn't fail To set sail The first fair gale, For once we thought him right; But, after a great clutter, He turn'd back along the coast, And left the French to make their boast, And Englishmen to mutter.

Just so, not long before, Old Knyp, And old Clip Went to the Jersey shore, The rebel rogues to beat; But, at Yankee farms, They took alarms, At little harms, And quickly did retreat.

Then after two days' wonder, March'd boldly up to Springfield town, And swore they'd knock the rebels down. But as their foes Gave them some blows, They, like the wind, Soon changed their mind. And, in a crack, Returned back, From not one third their number.

On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge described in Mr. Harte's poem.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

[June 23, 1780]

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,-- You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word Down at Springfield? What, No? Come--that's bad; why he had All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God,--and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But God--and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay, And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day;--think of him and his band Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance,--of that straggling retreat! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,-- And what could you, what should you, what would you do?

Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots, Rang his voice,--"Put Watts into 'em,--Boys, give 'em Watts!"

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,-- But not always a hero like this,--and that's all.

BRET HARTE.

Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780, General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called "The Cow-Chace."

THE COW-CHACE

[July 21, 1780]

Canto I

To drive the kine one summer's morn, The Tanner took his way; The calf shall rue that is unborn The jumbling of that day.

And Wayne descending steers shall know, And tauntingly deride; And call to mind in every low, The tanning of his hide.

Yet Bergen cows still ruminate, Unconscious in the stall, What mighty means were used to get, And loose them after all.

For many heroes bold and brave, From Newbridge and Tappan, And those that drink Passaic's wave, And those who eat supawn;

And sons of distant Delaware, And still remoter Shannon, And Major Lee with horses rare, And Proctor with his cannon.

All wond'rous proud in arms they came, What hero could refuse To tread the rugged path to fame, Who had a pair of shoes!

At six, the host with sweating buff, Arrived at Freedom's pole; When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough, Thus speechified the whole:

"O ye, whom glory doth unite, Who Freedom's cause espouse; Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight, Or that to drive the cows,

"Ere yet you tempt your further way, Or into action come, Hear, soldiers, what I have to say, And take a pint of rum.

"Intemp'rate valor then will string Each nervous arm the better; So all the land shall I O sing, And read the Gen'ral's letter.

"Know that some paltry refugees, Whom I've a mind to fright, Are playing h--l amongst the trees That grow on yonder height.

"Their fort and blockhouses we'll level, And deal a horrid slaughter; We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil, And ravish wife and daughter.

"I, under cover of th' attack, Whilst you are all at blows, From English neighb'rhood and Nyack, Will drive away the cows;

"For well you know the latter is The serious operation, And fighting with the refugees Is only demonstration."

His daring words, from all the crowd, Such great applause did gain, That every man declar'd aloud For serious work with Wayne.

Then from the cask of rum once more, They took a heady gill; When one and all, they loudly swore, They'd fight upon the hill.

But here--the Muse hath not a strain Befitting such great deeds; Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne, And shouting,--did their needs.

Canto II

Near his meridian pomp, the sun Had journey'd from th' horizon; When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on, Of heroes drunk as pison.

The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths, Reëchoed through the wood; Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes, And some to swim in blood.

At Irving's nod 'twas fine to see The left prepare to fight; The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee, Drew off upon the right.

Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate, Nor can the Muse assist her; Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat, Or he that gives a clyster.

For greatly one was signaliz'd, That fought on Chestnut Hill; And Canada immortaliz'd The vender of the pill.

Yet their attendance upon Proctor, They both might have to boast of; For there was business for the doctor, And hats to be disposed of.

Let none uncandidly infer, That Stirling wanted spunk; The self-made peer had sure been there, But that the peer was drunk.

But turn we to the Hudson's banks, Where stood the modest train, With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks, Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.

For them the unrelenting hand Of rebel fury drove, And tore from ev'ry genial band Of friendship and of love.

And some within the dungeon's gloom, By mock tribunals laid, Had waited long a cruel doom Impending o'er each head.

Here one bewails a brother's fate, There one a sire demands, Cut off, alas! before their date, By ignominious hands.

And silver'd grandsires here appear'd In deep distress serene, Of reverent manners that declar'd The better days they'd seen.

Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine, Thine all these tales of woe; Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine Blood never cease to flow?

And now the foe began to lead His forces to th' attack; Balls whistling unto balls succeed, And make the blockhouse crack.

No shot could pass, if you will take The Gen'ral's word for true; But 'tis a d----ble mistake, For ev'ry shot went thro'.

The firmer as the rebels press'd, The loyal heroes stand; Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast, And industry each hand.

In valor's frenzy, Hamilton Rode like a soldier big, And Secretary Harrison, With pen stuck in his wig.

But lest their chieftain, Washington, Should mourn them in the mumps, The fate of Withrington to shun, They fought behind the stumps.

But ah, Thaddeus Posset, why Should thy poor soul elope? And why should Titus Hooper die, Ay, die--without a rope?

Apostate Murphy, thou to whom Fair Shela ne'er was cruel, In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom, "Och! would ye die, my jewel?"

Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament, Of melancholy fate; The gray goose stolen as he went, In his heart's blood was wet.

Now, as the fight was further fought, And balls began to thicken, The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought, The color of a lickin'.

Yet undismay'd the chiefs command, And to redeem the day, Cry, SOLDIERS, CHARGE! they hear, they stand, They turn and run away.

Canto III

Not all delights the bloody spear, Or horrid din of battle; There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hear A word about the cattle.

The chief whom we beheld of late, Near Schralenberg haranging, At Yan Van Poop's unconscious sat Of Irving's hearty banging.

Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild, Most bravely did oppose The tears of woman and of child, Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.

But Wayne, of sympathizing heart, Required a relief, Not all the blessings could impart Of battle or of beef.

For now a prey to female charms, His soul took more delight in A lovely hamadryad's arms, Than cow-driving or fighting.

A nymph the refugees had drove Far from her native tree, Just happen'd to be on the move, When up came Wayne and Lee.

She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye, The hero saw portray'd, And all in tears she took him by-- The bridle of his jade.

"Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander! No human lamentations; The trees you see them cutting yonder, Are all my near relations.

"And I, forlorn! implore thine aid, To free the sacred grove; So shall thy prowess be repaid With an immortal's love."

Now some, to prove she was a goddess, Said this enchanting fair Had late retirèd from the Bodies In all the pomp of war.

The drums and merry fifes had play'd To honor her retreat, And Cunningham himself convey'd The lady through the street.

Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd, To no inquiry stoops, But takes the fair afflicted maid Right into Yan Van Poop's.

So Roman Anthony, they say, Disgraced th' imperial banner, And for a gypsy lost a day, Like Anthony the tanner.

The hamadryad had but half Receiv'd redress from Wayne, When drums and colors, cow and calf, Came down the road amain.

And in a cloud of dust was seen The sheep, the horse, the goat, The gentle heifer, ass obscene, The yearling and the shoat.

And pack-horses with fowls came by, Be-feather'd on each side, Like Pegasus, the horse that I And other poets ride.

Sublime upon his stirrups rose The mighty Lee behind, And drove the terror-smitten cows Like chaff before the wind.

But sudden see the woods above Pour down another corps, All helter-skelter in a drove, Like that I sung before.

Irving and terror in the van, Came flying all abroad; And cannon, colors, horse, and man, Ran tumbling to the road.

Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry, And his example too, "Run on, my merry men--for why? The shot will not go thro'."

As when two kennels in the street, Swell'd with a recent rain, In gushing streams together meet And seek the neighboring drain;

So met these dung-born tribes in one, As swift in their career, And so to Newbridge they ran on-- But all the cows got clear.

Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder, Saw the returning train, And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunder For them to steal again.

For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, and To share with each commander, As he had done at Staten Island With frost-bit Alexander.

In his dismay, the frantic priest Began to grow prophetic; You'd swore, to see his laboring breast, He'd taken an emetic.

"I view a future day," said he, "Brighter than this dark day is; And you shall see what you shall see, Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!

"And he shall come to Paulus Hook, And great achievements think on; And make a bow and take a look, Like Satan over Lincoln.

"And every one around shall glory To see the Frenchman caper; And pretty Susan tell the story In the next Chatham paper."

This solemn prophecy, of course, Gave all much consolation, Except to Wayne, who lost his horse Upon that great occasion.

His horse that carried all his prog, His military speeches, His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog, Blue stockings and brown breeches.

And now I've clos'd my epic strain, I tremble as I show it, Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne, Should ever catch the poet.

JOHN ANDRÉ.

The last stanza was singularly prophetic. The Americans relied for the defence of the Hudson upon the impregnable position at West Point, to the command of which Benedict Arnold had been appointed in July, 1780. Arnold, one of the most brilliant officers in the army, had been treated with great injustice by Congress, and to revenge himself determined to betray West Point into the hands of the British. He therefore opened communication with Clinton, and on September 21 Major André was sent to confer with the traitor. While returning to the British lines the following night, he was captured by an American outpost, who searched him, discovered the papers giving the details of the plot, and took him back to the American lines, refusing his offers of reward for his release.

BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY

[September 23, 1780]

Come all you brave Americans, And unto me give ear, And I'll sing you a ditty That will your spirits cheer, Concerning a young gentleman Whose age was twenty-two; He fought for North America, His heart was just and true.

They took him from his dwelling, And they did him confine, They cast him into prison, And kept him there a time. But he with resolution Resolv'd not long to stay; He set himself at liberty, And soon he ran away.

He with a scouting-party Went down to Tarrytown, Where he met a British officer, A man of high renown, Who says unto these gentlemen, "You're of the British cheer, I trust that you can tell me If there's any danger near?"

Then up stept this young hero, John Paulding was his name, "Sir, tell us where you're going, And, also, whence you came?" "I bear the British flag, sir; I've a pass to go this way, I'm on an expedition, And have no time to stay."

Then round him came this company, And bid him to dismount; "Come, tell us where you're going, Give us a strict account; For we are now resolvèd That you shall ne'er pass by." Upon examination They found he was a spy.

He beggèd for his liberty, He plead for his discharge, And oftentimes he told them, If they'd set him at large, "Here's all the gold and silver I have laid up in store, But when I reach the city, I'll give you ten times more."

"I scorn the gold and silver You have laid up in store, And when you get to New York, You need not send us more; But you may take your sword in hand To gain your liberty, And if that you do conquer me, Oh, then you shall be free."

"The time it is improper Our valor for to try, For if we take our swords in hand, Then one of us must die; I am a man of honor, With courage true and bold, And I fear not the man of clay, Although he's cloth'd in gold."

He saw that his conspiracy Would soon be brought to light; He begg'd for pen and paper, And askèd leave to write A line to General Arnold, To let him know his fate, And beg for his assistance; But now it was too late.

When the news it came to Arnold, It put him in a fret; He walk'd the room in trouble, Till tears his cheek did wet; The story soon went through the camp, And also through the fort; And he callèd for the Vulture And sailèd for New York.

Now Arnold to New York has gone, A-fighting for his king, And left poor Major André On the gallows for to swing; When he was executed, He look'd both meek and mild; He look'd upon the people, And pleasantly he smil'd.

It mov'd each eye with pity, Caus'd every heart to bleed, And every one wished him releas'd And Arnold in his stead. He was a man of honor, In Britain he was born; To die upon the gallows Most highly he did scorn.

A bumper to John Paulding! Now let your voices sound, Fill up your flowing glasses, And drink his health around; Also to those young gentlemen Who bore him company; Success to North America, Ye sons of liberty!

Arnold learned of André's capture just in time to escape to a British ship in the river, and Washington, arriving soon after, prevented his treacherous disposition of the American forces from being taken advantage of by the enemy.

ARNOLD

THE VILE TRAITOR

[September 25, 1780]

Arnold! the name, as heretofore, Shall now be Benedict no more: Since, instigated by the devil, Thy ways are turned from good to evil.

'Tis fit we brand thee with a name To suit thy infamy and shame; And, since of treason thou'rt convicted, Thy name shall be maledicted. Unless, by way of contradiction, We style thee Britain's Benediction. Such blessings she, with lavish hand, Confers on this devoted land.

For instance, only let us mention Some proof of her benign intention; The slaves she sends us o'er the deep, And bribes to cut our throats in sleep. To take our lives and scalps away, The savage Indians keeps in pay, And Tories worse, by half, than they.

Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,-- The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,-- Recorded Arnold's name shall stand, While Freedom's blessings crown our land, And odious for the blackest crimes, Arnold shall stink to latest times.

EPIGRAM

Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow, I love you much better than ever I did; You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,-- But mind that you both do just what I bid."

Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me! I will strictly adhere to all your great views; To you I'm devoted, with all things about me-- You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."

New Jersey Gazette, November 1, 1780.

André was tried by court-martial September 29, and condemned to be hanged as a spy. Clinton, with whom André was a warm personal favorite, made a desperate effort to save him, but in vain; and a petition from André himself that he might be shot instead of hanged was also rejected.

ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON

[October 1, 1780]

It is not the fear of death That damps my brow, It is not for another breath I ask thee now; I can die with a lip unstirr'd And a quiet heart-- Let but this prayer be heard Ere I depart.

I can give up my mother's look-- My sister's kiss; I can think of love--yet brook A death like this! I can give up the young fame I burn'd to win-- All--but the spotless name I glory in.

Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, Joy for the hour I live-- Calmness to die. By all the brave should cherish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish By a soldier's death!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

Accordingly, on Monday, October 2, 1780, the adjutant-general of the British army was led to the gallows, and shared the fate which had befallen Nathan Hale four years before.

ANDRÉ

This is the place where André met that death Whose infamy was keenest of its throes, And in this place of bravely yielded breath His ashes found a fifty years' repose;

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave, With those who have been kings in blood or fame, As Honor here some compensation gave For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

But whether in the Abbey's glory laid, Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore, Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed The loving pity and regret they bore.

In view of all he lost,--his youth, his love, And possibilities that wait the brave, Inward and outward bound, dim visions move Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.

The country's Father! how do we revere His justice,--Brutus-like in its decree,-- With André-sparing mercy, still more dear Had been his name,--if that, indeed, could be!

CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.

But Arnold, the chief offender, had escaped, and a plan was set on foot to abduct him from the midst of the British and bring him back to the American lines. The execution of this plot was intrusted to John Champe, a sergeant-major in Lee's cavalry. On the night of October 20, Champe mounted his horse and seemingly deserted to the British, escaping a hot pursuit. He gained Arnold's confidence, and made every arrangement to abduct him, but was foiled at the last moment by Arnold's embarkation on an expedition to the south.

SERGEANT CHAMPE

[October 20, 1780]

Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys, And listen to the story, How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night, Set off to catch the Tory.

You see the general had got mad To think his plans were thwarted, And swore by all, both good and bad, That Arnold should be carted.

So unto Lee he sent a line, And told him all his sorrow, And said that he must start the hunt Before the coming morrow.

Lee found a sergeant in his camp, Made up of bone and muscle, Who ne'er knew fear, and many a year With Tories had a tussle.

Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip, All button'd up from weather, Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip, And soon was in the heather.

He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook, Improving every instant-- Until a patrol, wide awake, Descried him in the distance.

On coming up, the guard call'd out And asked him where he's going-- To which he answer'd with his spur, And left him in the mowing.

The bushes pass'd him like the wind, And pebbles flew asunder, The guard was left far, far behind, All mix'd with mud and wonder.

Lee's troops paraded, all alive, Although 'twas one the morning, And counting o'er a dozen or more, One sergeant is found wanting.

A little hero, full of spunk, But not so full of judgment, Press'd Major Lee to let him go, With the bravest of his reg'ment.

Lee summon'd cornet Middleton, Expressèd what was urgent, And gave him orders how to go To catch the rambling sergeant.

Then forty troopers, more or less, Set off across the meader; 'Bout thirty-nine went jogging on A-following their leader.

At early morn, adown a hill, They saw the sergeant sliding; So fast he went, it was not ken't Whether he's rode, or riding.

None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd, A-gaining every minute. To see them go, 'twould done you good, You'd thought old Satan in it.

The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck, And took another tracing, He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook, Elizabethtown facing.

It was the custom of Sir Hal To send his galleys cruising, And so it happenèd just then That two were at Van Deusen's.

Strait unto these the sergeant went, And left old Rip, all standing, A-waiting for the blown cornet, At Squire Van Deusen's landing.

The troopers didn't gallop home, But rested from their labors; And some 'tis said took gingerbread And cider from the neighbors.

'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'd The camp they left that morning. Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee, Gave an unwelcome warning.

"If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;" So thought the generous major; "I would not have his garment touch'd For millions on a wager!"

The cornet told him all he knew, Excepting of the cider. The troopers, all, spurred very well, But Champe was the best rider!

And so it happen'd that brave Champe Unto Sir Hal deserted, Deceiving him, and you, and me, And into York was flirted.

He saw base Arnold in his camp, Surrounded by the legion, And told him of the recent prank That threw him in that region.

Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands, And e'enmost choked with pleasure, Not thinking Champe was all the while A "taking of his measure."

"Come now," says he, "my bold soldier, As you're within our borders, Let's drink our fill, old care to kill, To-morrow you'll have orders."

Full soon the British fleet set sail! Say! wasn't that a pity? For thus it was brave Sergeant Champe Was taken from the city.

To southern climes the shipping flew, And anchored in Virginia, When Champe escaped and join'd his friends Among the picininni.

Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd, Poor André was gibbeted; Arnold's to blame for André's fame, And André's to be pitied.

After the flurry consequent upon André's capture and execution, affairs at New York settled back into the old routine. A sort of lethargy seemed to possess the British leaders, and the Americans grew bolder and bolder, sometimes pushing their foraging expeditions within the British lines, and on one occasion seizing a quantity of hay and setting fire to some houses within sight of Clinton's quarters. The next day, the Loyalist disgust was voiced in some verses written by Joseph Stansbury and stuck up about the town.

A NEW SONG

[1780]

"Has the Marquis La Fayette Taken off all our hay yet?" Says Clinton to the wise heads around him: "Yes, faith, Sir Harry, Each stack he did carry, And likewise the cattle--confound him!

"Besides, he now goes, Just under your nose, To burn all the houses to cinder." "If that be his project, It is not an object Worth a great man's attempting to hinder.

"For forage and house I care not a louse; For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow: I swear I'll not do more To keep them in humor, Than play on my violoncello.

"Since Charleston is taken, 'Twill sure save my bacon,-- I can live a whole year on that same, sir; Ride about all the day, At night, concert or play; So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir.

"If growlers complain, I inactive remain-- Will do nothing, nor let any others! 'Tis sure no new thing To serve thus our king-- Witness Burgoyne, and two famous Brothers!"

JOSEPH STANSBURY.

Another of Stansbury's lyrics, and perhaps the best he ever wrote, is "The Lords of the Main," intended for the use of the British sailors then engaged in fighting their ancient foes, France and Spain.

THE LORDS OF THE MAIN

[1780]

When Faction, in league with the treacherous Gaul, Began to look big, and paraded in state, A meeting was held at Credulity Hall, And Echo proclaimed their ally good and great. By sea and by land Such wonders are planned-- No less than the bold British lion to chain! "Well hove!" says Jack Lanyard, "French, Congo, and Spaniard, Have at you!--remember, we're Lords of the Main. Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main; The Tars of old England are Lords of the Main!"

Though party-contention awhile may perplex, And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense, If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex, In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence. When danger alarms, 'Tis then that in arms United we rush on the foe with disdain; And when the storm rages, It only presages Fresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main! Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main-- Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main!

Then, Britons, strike home--make sure of your blow: The chase is in view--never mind a lea shore. With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe: 'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore! Brave Anson, and Drake, Hawke, Russell, and Blake, With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain! Combining with treason, They're deaf to all reason; Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main. Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main-- The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main!

JOSEPH STANSBURY.

Among the desperate and foolish expedients to which the British resorted in the hope of winning America back to her allegiance was that of sending Prince William Henry, afterwards William IV, to New York in 1781. The Tory authorities of the city overwhelmed him with adulation, but in the country at large, his visit excited only derision.

THE ROYAL ADVENTURER

[1781]

Prince William, of the Brunswick race, To witness George's sad disgrace The royal lad came over, Rebels to kill, by right divine-- Derived from that illustrious line, The beggars of Hanover.

So many chiefs got broken pates In vanquishing the rebel states, So many nobles fell, That George the Third in passion cried: "Our royal blood must now be tried; 'Tis that must break the spell;

"To you [the fat pot-valiant swain To Digby said], dear friend of mine, To you I trust my boy; The rebel tribes shall quake with fears, Rebellion die when he appears, My Tories leap with joy."

So said, so done--the lad was sent, But never reached the continent, An island held him fast-- Yet there his friends danced rigadoons, The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes, "Prince William's come at last!"

"Prince William's come!"--the Briton cried-- "Our labors now will be repaid-- Dominion be restored-- Our monarch is in William seen, He is the image of our queen, Let William be adored!"

The Tories came with long address, With poems groaned the royal press, And all in William's praise-- The youth, astonished, looked about To find their vast dominions out, Then answered in amaze:

"Where all your vast domain can be, Friends, for my soul I cannot see; 'Tis but an empty name; Three wasted islands and a town In rubbish buried--half burnt down, Is all that we can claim;

"I am of royal birth, 'tis true. But what, my sons, can princes do, No armies to command? Cornwallis conquered and distrest-- Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest-- I curse--and quit the land."

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The war in the North thereafter was confined, on the part of the British, to predatory raids along the coasts, of which "The Descent on Middlesex" is a fair example. On the afternoon of July 22, 1781, a party of Royalist refugees surrounded the church, where the people of Middlesex were at prayer, and took fifty of them captive, among them Schoolmaster St. John, of Norwalk, the author of the following ingenuous ballad describing their experiences.

THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX

[July 22, 1781]

July the twenty-second day, The precise hour I will not say, In seventeen hundred and eighty-one, A horrid action was begun.

While to the Lord they sing and pray, The Tories who in ambush lay, Beset the house with brazen face, At Middlesex, it was the place.

A guard was plac'd the house before, Likewise behind and at each door; Then void of shame, those men of sin The sacred temple enter'd in.

The reverend Mather closed his book, How did the congregation look! Those demons plunder'd all they could, Either in silver or in gold.

The silver buckles which we use, Both at the knees and on the shoes, These caitiffs took them in their rage, Had no respect for sex or age.

As they were searching all around, They several silver watches found; While they who're plac'd as guards without, Like raging devils rang'd about.

Run forty horses to the shore, Not many either less or more; With bridles, saddles, pillions on; In a few minutes all was done.

The men from hence they took away, Upon that awful sacred day, Was forty-eight, besides two more They chanc'd to find upon the shore.

On board the shipping they were sent, Their money gone, and spirits spent, And greatly fearing their sad end, This wicked seizure did portend.

They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd, And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first; 'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrong To bring so many men along.

Then every man must tell his name, A list they took, and kept the same; When twenty-four of fifty men Were order'd to go home again.

The twenty-six who stay'd behind, Most cruelly they were confin'd; On board the brig were order'd quick, And then confin'd beneath the deck.

A dismal hole with filth besmear'd, But 'twas no more than what we fear'd; Sad the confinement, dark the night, But then the devil thought 'twas right.

But to return whence I left off. They at our misery made a scoff; Like raving madmen tore about, Swearing they'd take our vitals out.

They said no quarter they would give Nor let a cursèd rebel live; But would their joints in pieces cut, Then round the deck like turkeys strut.

July, the fourth and twentieth day, We all marched off to Oyster Bay; To increase our pains and make it worse, They iron'd just six pair of us.

But as they wanted just one pair, An iron stirrup lying there Was taken and on anvil laid, On which they with a hammer paid.

And as they beat it inch by inch, They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch; Those wretched caitiffs standing by, Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.

Although to call them not by name, From Fairfield county many came; And were delighted with the rout, To see the rebels kick'd about.

At night we travell'd in the rain, All begg'd for shelter, but in vain, Though almost naked to the skin; A dismal pickle we were in.

Then to the half-way house we came, The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name, And there we found a soul's relief; We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.

The people gen'rously behav'd, Made a good fire, some brandy gave, Of which we greatly stood in need, As we were wet and cold indeed.

But ere the house we did attain, We trembled so with cold and rain, Our irons jingled--well they might-- We shiver'd so that stormy night.

In half an hour or thereabout, The orders were, "Come, all turn out! Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew, To loiter thus will never do."

'Twas now about the break of day, When all were forc'd to march away; With what they order'd we complied, Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.

We made a halt one half mile short Of what is term'd Brucklyn's fort; Where all were hurried through the street: Some overtook us, some we met.

We now traversing the parade, The awful figure which we made, Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment, And some would curse us as we went.

Their grandest fort was now hard by us; They show'd us that to terrify us; They show'd us all their bulwarks there, To let be known how strong they were.

Just then the Tory drums did sound, And pipes rang out a warlike round; Supposing we must thence conclude That Britain ne'er could be subdued.

Up to the guard-house we were led, Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread; Not quite one mouthful, I believe, For every man we did receive.

In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd, And at New York arriv'd at last; As through the streets we pass'd along, Ten thousand curses round us rang.

But some would laugh, and some would sneer, And some would grin, and others leer; A mixèd mob, a medley crew, I guess as e'er the devil knew.

To the Provost we then were haul'd, Though we of war were prisoners call'd; Our irons now were order'd off, And we were left to sneeze and cough.

But oh! what company we found. With great surprise we look'd around: I must conclude that in that place, We found the worst of Adam's race.

Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too, And everything that's bad they'd do; One of our men found to his cost, Three pounds, York money, he had lost.

They pick'd his pocket quite before We had been there one single hour; And while he lookèd o'er and o'er, The vagrants from him stole some more.

We soon found out, but thought it strange We never were to be exchang'd By a cartel, but for some men Whom they desir'd to have again.

A pack with whom they well agree, Who're call'd the loyal company, Or "Loyalists Associated," As by themselves incorporated.

Our food was call'd two-thirds in weight Of what a soldier has to eat; We had no blankets in our need, Till a kind friend did intercede.

Said he, "The prisoners suffer so, 'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too; I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed, So great their hardship and their need."

And well to us was the event, Fine blankets soon to us were sent; Small the allowance, very small, But better far than none at all.

An oaken plank, it was our bed, An oaken pillow for the head, And room as scanty as our meals, For we lay crowded head and heels.

In seven days or thereabout, One Jonas Weed was taken out, And to his friends he was resign'd, But many still were kept behind.

Soon after this some were parol'd, Too tedious wholly to be told; And some from bondage were unstrung, Whose awful sufferings can't be sung.

The dread smallpox to some they gave, Nor tried at all their lives to save, But rather sought their desolation, As they denied 'em 'noculation.

To the smallpox there did succeed A putrid fever, bad indeed; As they before were weak and spent, Soon from the stage of life they went.

For wood we greatly stood in need, For which we earnestly did plead; But one tenth part of what we wanted Of wood, to us was never granted.

The boiling kettles which we had, Were wanting covers, good or bad; The worst of rum that could be bought, For a great price, to us was brought.

For bread and milk, and sugar, too, We had to pay four times their due; While cash and clothing which were sent, Those wretched creatures did prevent.

Some time it was in dark November, But just the day I can't remember, Full forty of us were confin'd In a small room both damp and blind,

Because there had been two or three, Who were not of our company, Who did attempt the other day, The Tories said, to get away.

In eighteen days we were exchang'd, And through the town allowed to range; Of twenty-five that were ta'en, But just nineteen reach'd home again.

Four days before December's gone, In seventeen hundred eighty-one, I hail'd the place where months before, The Tories took me from the shore.

PETER ST. JOHN.

X. THE WAR IN THE SOUTH

After the surrender of Burgoyne, the military attitude of the British in the Northern States was, as has been seen, purely defensive, but the Southern States were the scene of vigorous fighting. The King had set his heart on the reduction of Georgia and the Carolinas, and it looked for a time as though he would be gratified. In General Augustine Prevost there was at last found a man after the King's own heart, and his barbarities and vandalism were among the most monstrous of the war. General Benjamin Lincoln was sent south to oppose him, and was soon joined by Count Pulaski and his legion.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowlèd head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it, till our homes are free! Guard it! God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him! By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him! he our love hath shared! Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

In August, 1779, the French fleet under D'Estaing appeared off the coast of Georgia, and plans were made for the capture of Savannah. The place was closely invested by the French and Americans, and for nearly a month the siege was vigorously carried on. But D'Estaing grew impatient, and on October 9 an attempt was made to carry the place by storm. The assailants were totally defeated, losing more than a thousand men, while the British loss was only fifty-five. Count Pulaski was among the slain.

ABOUT SAVANNAH

[October 9, 1779]

Come let us rejoice, With heart and with voice, Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir, While bumpers go round, Reëcho the sound, Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

With warlike parade, And his Irish brigade, His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir, As proud as an elf, D'Estaing came himself, And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

There joining a band Under Lincoln's command, Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir, 'Gainst the town of Savannah He planted his banner, And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

With thund'ring of guns, And bursting of bombs, He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir: But amidst all their din, Brave Maitland push'd in, And Moncrieffe cried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

Chagrined at delay, As he meant not to stay, The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir. Van, centre, and rear March'd up without fear, Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

Though rude was the shock, Unmov'd as a rock, Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir, While the brave German corps, And Americans bore Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

Then muskets did rattle, Fierce ragèd the battle, Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir. The ditch fill'd with slain, Blood dyed all the plain, When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.

See! see! how they run! Lord! what glorious fun! How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir! Brains fly all around, Dying screeches resound, And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

There Pulaski fell, That imp of old Bell, Who attempted to murder his king, sir. But now he is gone Whence he'll never return; But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

To Charleston with fear The rebels repair; D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir, Each blaming the other, Each cursing his brother, And--may they cut each other's throats, sir.

Scarce three thousand men The town did maintain, 'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir, Who left on the plain, Of wounded and slain, Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

Three thousand! no less! For the rebels confess Some loss, as you very well know, sir. Then let bumpers go round, And reëcho the sound, Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

As soon as Clinton learned of this victory, he determined to capture Charleston, where General Lincoln was stationed with three thousand men. Lincoln decided to withstand a siege, hoping for reinforcements; but none came, and on May 12, 1780, to avoid a wanton waste of life, he surrendered his army and the city to the British.

A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON

[May 12, 1780]

King Hancock sat in regal state, And big with pride and vainly great, Address'd his rebel crew: "These haughty Britons soon shall yield The boasted honors of the field, While our brave sons pursue.

"Six thousand fighting men or more, Protect the Carolina shore, And Freedom will defend; And stubborn Britons soon shall feel, 'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel, How vainly they contend."

But ere he spake, in dread array, To rebel foes, ill-fated day, The British boys appear; Their mien with martial ardor fir'd, And by their country's wrongs inspir'd, Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.

See Clinton brave, serene, and great, For mighty deeds rever'd by fate, Direct the thund'ring fight, While Mars, propitious god of war, Looks down from his triumphal car With wonder and delight.

"Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine, 'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine A great immortal name, And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appear Conspicuous each revolving year, The pledge of future fame."

Our tars, their share of glories won, For they among the bravest shone, Undaunted, firm, and bold; Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd Hearts which with native valor glow'd, Hearts of true British mould.

The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British; estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion, perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy in legitimate warfare.

THE SWAMP FOX

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton rides, We burrow in the cypress-tree. The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer's den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men.

We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe. And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing sabre blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,-- The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,-- And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last perhaps that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste. He whistles to the scouts, and hark! You hear his order calm and low. Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.

We may not see their forms again, God help 'em, should they find the strife! For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,-- The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel bend his knee, To take his slumbers too. But hush! He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that's there; I love not it should idly stand When Marion's men have need of cheer. 'Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed. The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep! But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress-tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we. The Tory camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, We share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away, Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Among the members of Marion's band was a gigantic Scotsman named Macdonald, the hero of many daring escapades, of which his raid through Georgetown, S. C., with only four troopers, was the most remarkable. Georgetown was a fortified place, defended by a garrison of three hundred men.

MACDONALD'S RAID

[1780]

I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray, And the legion lay idle and listless that day, A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul, And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl, When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade, Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid. Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright, To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight; Yet he chose from our numbers four men and no more. "Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore, If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead, With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed. Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring, Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark, And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark; His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free, With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee, His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing-- Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride, Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms, When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout, With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without, Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring, "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout, That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt, And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they, "Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day. Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din! 'Tis the front wall besieged--have the rebels rushed in? It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring Of 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped, And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red; And the ground here and there by an ominous stain Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain: A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose, With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose, By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down, To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown, And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft, What should we do next, but--as careless and calm As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm 'Mid a land of pure peace--just serenely drop down On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town. What a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing, As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?--

Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss, On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss, Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last; So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back, And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame: With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came, And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the trees Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees; Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us then? Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now-- The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down, Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town: Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring-- Ay! my muscles are firm still; I fought 'gainst the King!

Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all The sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall; Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp; Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep-- That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

Second alone to Marion in this wild warfare was Thomas Sumter, a Virginian, destined to serve his country in other ways. During the summer of 1780, he kept up so brisk a guerrilla warfare that Cornwallis called him "the greatest plague in the country."

SUMTER'S BAND

When Carolina's hope grew pale Before the British lion's tread, And Freedom's sigh in every gale Was heard above her martyr'd dead;

When from her mountain heights subdued, In pride of place forbid to soar, Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood, Lay sullen on the indignant shore,

Breathing revenge, invoking doom, Tyrant! upon thy purple host, When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom, And silence brooded o'er her coast,

Stealthy, as when from thicket dun, The Indian springs upon his bow, Up rose, South Mount, thy warrior son, And headlong darted on the foe.

Not in the pride of war he came, With bugle note and banner high, And nodding plume, and steel of flame, Red battle's gorgeous panoply!

With followers few, but undismay'd, Each change and chance of fate withstood, Beneath her sunshine and her shade, The same heroic brotherhood!

From secret nook, in other land, Emerging fleet along the pine, Prone down he flew before his band, Like eagle on the British line!

Catacoba's waters smiled again, To see her Sumter's soul in arms; And issuing from each glade and glen, Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,

Throng'd hundreds through the solitude Of the wild forest, to the call Of him whose spirit, unsubdued, Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.

By day the burning sands they ply, Night sees them in the fell ravine; Familiar to each follower's eye, The tangled brake, the hall of green.

Roused by their tread from covert deep, Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while near Is heard, forbidding thought of sleep, The rattling serpent's sound of fear!

Before or break of early morn, Or fox looks out from copse to close, Before the hunter winds his horn. Sumter's already on his foes!

He beat them back! beneath the flame Of valor quailing, or the shock! And carved, at last, a hero's name Upon the glorious Hanging Rock!

And time, that shades or sears the wreath, Where glory binds the soldier's brow, Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death, His hour of proudest triumph, now.

And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shore Where Sumter bled, nor bled in vain; A thousand hearts shall break, before They wear the oppressor's chains again.

O never can thy sons forget The mighty lessons taught by thee; Since--treasured by the eternal debt-- Their watchword is thy memory!

J. W. SIMMONS.

South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis, elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain, and either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN

[October 7, 1780]

'Twas on a pleasant mountain The Tory heathens lay, With a doughty major at their head, One Ferguson, they say.

Cornwallis had detach'd him A-thieving for to go, And catch the Carolina men, Or bring the rebels low.

The scamp had rang'd the country In search of royal aid, And with his owls, perchèd on high, He taught them all his trade.

But ah! that fatal morning, When Shelby brave drew near! 'Tis certainly a warning That ministers should hear.

And Campbell, and Cleveland, And Colonel Sevier, Each with a band of gallant men, To Ferguson appear.

Just as the sun was setting Behind the western hills, Just then our trusty rifles sent A dose of leaden pills.

Up, up the steep together Brave Williams led his troop, And join'd by Winston, bold and true, Disturb'd the Tory coop.

The royal slaves, the royal owls, Flew high on every hand; But soon they settled--gave a howl, And quarter'd to Cleveland.

I would not tell the number Of Tories slain that day, But surely it is certain That none did run away.

For all that were a-living, Were happy to give up; So let us make thanksgiving, And pass the bright tin-cup.

To all the brave regiments, Let's toast 'em for their health, And may our good country Have quietude and wealth.

This brilliant victory restored hope to the patriots of the South, and Cornwallis soon found himself in a dangerous position. He was finally forced to detach Tarleton, with eleven hundred men, to attack Daniel Morgan's little army of nine hundred men, which was threatening his line of communications. On Tarleton's approach, Morgan retreated to a grazing ground known as the Cowpens near King's Mountain, and here, on January 17, 1781, Tarleton attacked him, only to be completely routed.

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS

[January 17, 1781]

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning, Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight; From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning, Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error, When his force was made our ready blows to feel; When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us, Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp; There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us, Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces, Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe; While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses, Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor That they scarce would care to follow us again; In the rear, the Continentals--none were readier, nor braver; In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall, Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses, Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing-- It was then upon the very nick of nine. Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing, And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer, There was naught about them fearful, after all, Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer, "Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand; Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten. Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame; Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me-- No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire; And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger; And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing; Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden; And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's; On your rifles and a careful aim rely. They were trained in many battles--we in workshops, fields, and forges; But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."

Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited, Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came: Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated; On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yelling Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone; With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks; Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring. Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er us Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground; Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us, Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain, Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar; Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve. Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden; Tarleton gave the closing order--"Bring to action the reserve!"

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring, Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks; And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring, Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward, And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe; We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward, With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly--"Fall back nearly to the border Of the hill and let the enemy come nigher!" Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder, When out rang the voice of Howard--"To the right about, face!--Fire!"

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley, And our balls made red a pathway down the hill; Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard-- "Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"--and we did it with a will.

In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster Than their comrades on our rear in fury bore; But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster, For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them; In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled; Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing, And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness-- We had never seen such running in our lives! Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness, Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them! To their home o'er ocean never sailing back; After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them, Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white; When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin; 'Twas my sister's--for the moment things around me were forsaken; I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded; Vain to me they looked for succor in their need. O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded, Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered; Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim; As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered, For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him-- Horse and rider--down together went the twain:

"Quarter!"--He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er him; Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain-- Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Tarleton's defeat deprived Cornwallis of nearly a third of his forces, and his situation became more desperate than ever. He kept on across North Carolina and engaged Greene in an indecisive action at Guilford Court-House on March 15, and then retreated to Wilmington. Greene, with splendid strategy, started at once for South Carolina, captured nearly all the forts there in British hands, and on September 8 fell upon the British at Eutaw Springs, compelling them to retreat to Charleston.

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW

[September 8, 1781]

Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain, And it speaks to our heart in its pride, As it tells of the bearing of heroes Who compassed its summits and died! How they gathered to strife as the eagles, When the foeman had clambered the height! How, with scent keen and eager as beagles, They hunted him down for the fight.

Hark! through the gorge of the valley, 'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe; Our own quickly sounds for the rally, And we snatch down the rifle and go. As the hunter who hears of the panther, Each arms him and leaps to his steed, Rides forth through the desolate antre, With his knife and his rifle at need.

From a thousand deep gorges they gather, From the cot lowly perched by the rill, The cabin half hid in the heather, 'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still; Each lonely at first in his roaming, Till the vale to the sight opens fair, And he sees the low cot through the gloaming, When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble For the hunt of the insolent foe, And soon shall his myrmidons tremble 'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow. Down the lone heights now wind they together, As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale, And now, as they group on the heather, The keen scout delivers his tale:

"The British--the Tories are on us, And now is the moment to prove To the women whose virtues have won us, That our virtues are worthy their love! They have swept the vast valleys below us With fire, to the hills from the sea; And here would they seek to o'erthrow us In a realm which our eagle makes free!"

No war-council suffered to trifle With the hours devote to the deed; Swift followed the grasp of the rifle, Swift followed the bound to the steed; And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen, All panting with rage at the sight, Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman, As he lay in his camp on the height.

Grim dashed they away as they bounded, The hunters to hem in the prey, And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded, Then the British rose fast to the fray; And never with arms of more vigor Did their bayonets press through the strife. Where, with every swift pull of the trigger, The sharpshooters dashed out a life!

'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions; 'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves; Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance, Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves; Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle, As from danger to danger he flies. Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle, With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!

An hour, and the battle is over; The eagles are rending the prey; The serpents seek flight into cover, But the terror still stands in the way: More dreadful the doom that on treason Avenges the wrongs of the state; And the oak-tree for many a season Bears fruit for the vultures of fate!

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

EUTAW SPRINGS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS, UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781, AT EUTAW SPRINGS.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died: Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-- Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite thy gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted, rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear--

They saw their injured country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear,--but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly; None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved, in such a cause, to die--

But, like the Parthians famed of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Cornwallis, meanwhile, had marched off toward Virginia, reaching Petersburg May 20, 1781, joining the British forces there and raising his army to five thousand men. He marched down the peninsula and established himself at Yorktown, adding the garrison of Portsmouth to his army, so that it numbered over seven thousand men.

THE DANCE

Cornwallis led a country dance, The like was never seen, sir, Much retrograde and much advance, And all with General Greene, sir.

They rambled up and rambled down, Joined hands, then off they run, sir. Our General Greene to Charlestown, The earl to Wilmington, sir.

Greene in the South then danced a set, And got a mighty name, sir, Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette, But suffered in his fame, sir.

Then down he figured to the shore, Most like a lordly dancer, And on his courtly honor swore He would no more advance, sir.

Quoth he, my guards are weary grown With footing country dances, They never at St. James's shone, At capers, kicks, or prances.

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen, While sauntering on parade, sir, Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green, Or at a masquerade, sir.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts, For stumps and briars meet, sir? Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts, Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York, he challenged all, At minuet or all 'amande, And lessons for a courtly ball His guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there came A set who had the bon ton, De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame Fut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son, Whom easy nature taught, sir, That grace which can't by pains be won, Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle round This ever-dancing peer, sir; Their gentle movements soon confound The earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play-- His feet can move no more, sir, And all his bands now curse the day They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say? Come--is not this a griper, That while your hopes are danced away, 'Tis you must pay the piper?

Here an unexpected factor entered upon the scene. A magnificent French fleet under Count de Grasse had sailed for the Chesapeake, and Washington, with a daring worthy of Cæsar or Napoleon, decided to transfer his army from the Hudson to Virginia and overwhelm Cornwallis. On August 19 Washington's army crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry and started on its four hundred mile march. On September 18 it appeared before Yorktown. The French squadron was already on the scene, and Cornwallis was in the trap. There was no escape. On October 17 he hoisted the white flag, and two days later the British army, over seven thousand in number, laid down its arms.

CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER

[October 19, 1781]

When British troops first landed here, With Howe commander o'er them, They thought they'd make us quake for fear, And carry all before them; With thirty thousand men or more, And she without assistance, America must needs give o'er, And make no more resistance.

But Washington, her glorious son, Of British hosts the terror, Soon, by repeated overthrows, Convinc'd them of their error; Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell, What gallant deeds he's done, sir, And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell, And thousands more have run, sir.

Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd Virginia's old dominion, Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be; And so was North's opinion. From State to State with rapid stride, His troops had march'd before, sir, Till quite elate with martial pride, He thought all dangers o'er, sir.

But our allies, to his surprise, The Chesapeake had enter'd; And now too late, he curs'd his fate, And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd, For Washington no sooner knew The visit he had paid her, Than to his parent State he flew, To crush the bold invader.

When he sat down before the town, His Lordship soon surrender'd; His martial pride he laid aside, And cas'd the British standard; Gods! how this stroke will North provoke, And all his thoughts confuse, sir! And how the Peers will hang their ears, When first they hear the news, sir.

Be peace, the glorious end of war, By this event effected; And be the name of Washington To latest times respected; Then let us toast America, And France in union with her; And may Great Britain rue the day Her hostile bands came hither.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS

Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell, 'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell; 'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar, A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er.

A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord, Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword, Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies too, And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"

A council to surrender this lord did then command; "What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend; Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's roar? De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."

'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81, Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington; Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms; Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.

Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd, Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind; Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due, O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.

Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see, And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty; For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent, That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.

Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew, Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue; May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore, And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

"Early on a dark morning of the fourth week in October, an honest old German, slowly pacing the streets of Philadelphia on his night watch, began shouting, 'Basht dree o'glock, und Gornvallis ish dakendt!' and light sleepers sprang out of bed and threw up their windows." The whole country burst into jubilation at the news, and every village green was ablaze with bonfires.

NEWS FROM YORKTOWN

OCTOBER, 1781

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How the voice rolled down the street Till the silence rang and echoed With the stir of hurrying feet! In the hush of the Quaker city, As the night drew on to morn, How it startled the troubled sleepers, Like the cry for a man-child born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How they gathered, man and maid, Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock, There the trembling grandsire staid! From the stateliest homes of the city, From hovels that love might scorn, How they followed that ringing summons, Like the cry for a king's heir born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." I can see the quick lights flare, See the glad, wild face at the window, Half dumb in a breathless stare. In the pause of an hour portentous, In the gloom of a hope forlorn, How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens, Like the cry for a nation born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken." How the message is sped and gone To the farm and the town and the forest Till the world was one vast dawn! To distant and slave-sunk races, Bowed down in their chains that morn, How it swept on the winds of heaven, Like a cry for God's justice born!

LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH.

AN ANCIENT PROPHECY

(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis)

When a certain great King, whose initial is G., Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea; When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble, You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.

But when a Petition he treads under feet, And sends over the ocean an army and fleet, When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage, Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage; When that leader goes home, dejected and sad; You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.

But when B. and C. with their armies are taken This King will do well if he saves his own bacon: In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue; And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive, When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.

In the year eighty-three, the affair will be over And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover; The face of the Lion will then become pale, He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail-- O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore, From the Stars and the Stripes you will mercy implore, And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.--

PHILIP FRENEAU.