[by John Andre´, Adjutant General of the British Army in America]
NEAR his meridian pomp the Sun
Had journey'd from the hor'zon
When fierce the dusky Tribe mov'd on
Of Heroes drunk as poison.
The sounds confus'd the boasting Oaths,
Re echoed thro' the Wood,
Some vow'd to sleep in the dead Men's Cloaths,
And some to swim in blood.
At Irvine's Nod 'twas fine to see,
The left prepare to fight,
The while the Drovers, Wayne and Lee,
Drew off upon the Right.
Which Irvine 'twas, Fame don't relate
Nor can the Muse assist her,
Whether 'twas he that cocks a Hat,
Or he that gives a Clister.
For greatly one was signaliz'd,
That fought at Chestnut-Hill,
And Canada immortaliz'd,
The Vendor of the Pill.
Yet the attendance upon Proctor,
They both might have to boast of;
For there was Business for the Doctor,
And hatts 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 Hand,
Of Friendship and of Love.
And some within a Dungeon's Gloom,
By mock Tribunals laid,
Had waited long a cruel Doom,
Impending o'er their Heads.
Here one bewails a Brother's Fate,
There one a Sire demands,
Cut off alas! before their Date
By ignominious Hand.
And silver'd Grandsires here appear'd,
In deep Distress serene,
Of reverend Manners that declared,
The better Days they'd seen.
Oh curs'd Rebellion these are thine,
Thine are 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 Block-House 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 Valour's Phrenzy, Hamilton
Rode like a Soldier big,
And Secretary Harrison,
With Pen stuck in his Wig.
But lest their Chieftan Washington,
Should mourn them in the Mumps,
The Fate of Withrington to shun,
They fought behind the Stumps.
But ah, Thadaeus Posset, why
Should thy Poor Sole elope,
And why should Titus Hooper die,
Ah die--without a Rope.
Apostate Murphy, thou to whom
Fair Shela ne'er was cruel,
In Death, shal't hear her mourn thy Doom,
Auch wou'd you die my Jewel?
Thee Nathan Pumpkin I lament,
Of melancholly Fate,
The Grey 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 colour of a licking.
Yet undismay'd the Chiefs Command,
And to redeem the Day,
Cry, SOLDIERS CHARGE! they hear, they stand,
They turn and run away.
(The End of Canto the 2d.)
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The Royal Gazette, (New York), August 30th, 1780.
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