Chapter IX: Act I: Scene IV (4)

The whole volume, throughout, bears witness of the cultivated intellect from which it sprung, and of the author’s fine taste and enthusiastic appreciation of the attractions of a country life. It is printed and embellished as such a work should be. We heartily commend it to the attention of country gentlemen.

* * * * *

_Johnsoniana; or a Supplement to Boswell; being Anecdotes and
Sayings of Doctor Johnson, Collected from Mrs. Piozzi, George
Steevens, W. Pepys, Doctor Beattie, John Northcote, John Hoole,
Sir John Hawkins, Sir Josh. Reynolds, Cowper, Dugald Stewart,
Edmund Malone, Sir James Mackintosh, Doctor Moor, Doctor Parr,
Bishop Horne, etc. Edited by John Wilson Croker. One vol. 12mo.,
pp. 530. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1842._

This is a very entertaining volume, and an indispensable companion to Boswell—embodying, as it does, every anecdote of the literary dictator which that model biographer omitted in his life of him, gathered from nearly a hundred different publications. It might, however, have been made better, had its publication been deferred until the appearance of Madame D’Arblay’s Memoirs. It is embellished with finely engraved portraits of Johnson, Boswell, Beauclerk, Mrs. Piozzi and Mr. Thrale.

* * * * *

_The History of Fiction: Being a Critical Account of the most
Celebrated Prose Works of Fiction, from the Earliest Greek
Romances to the Novels of the Present Day. By John Dunlap. Two
volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

During the recent summer there has been republished in this country no book for the library more interesting or valuable than this History of Fiction. It was first printed at Edinburgh in 1814, and two years after a second and much improved edition appeared in the same city, of which this by Messrs. Carey & Hart is a reproduction. The History of Fiction is intimately connected with the history of the advancement of society, and is therefore interesting to the philosopher as well as the man of letters. Mr. Dunlap traces separately the progress of the romances of chivalry, the Italian tales, the spiritual romance, the pastoral stories, the French novels, the modern English novels and romances, etc., and gives analysis—so far as our very limited acquaintance with them enables us to judge, correct and sufficiently full to convey a just idea of their character and merit—of the early and rare productions which form the landmarks of his subject. Our own impressions do not on all points correspond with those of Mr. Dunlap; and we think he erred in confining his History to _prose_ fictions only, as the creations of the poets, though earlier and in all ways superior, resemble them too nearly in their chief characteristics to be regarded separately.

* * * * *

_Random Shots and Southern Breezes: Containing Critical Remarks
on the Southern States and Southern Institutions, with
semi-serious Observations on Men and Manners. By Louis
Fitzgerald Tasistro, Author of “The Revolution of July,” etc.
Two vols. 12mo. New York, Harper & Brothers._

This is a lively and entertaining journal of a professional tour through the southern and western parts of the Union, in the autumn and winter of 1840. Blended with his narrative and comments on society, Mr. Tasistro has given opinions and critical essays on a great variety of subjects connected with literature and art, which with men of taste will be regarded as the most attractive parts of the work.

* * * * *

_A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, for the Voice.
Philadelphia, J. Dobson._

The lovers of Scottish music will be gratified to learn that this celebrated work—originally published in five volumes at Edinburgh by G. Thompson—is being republished in this country. It has introductory and concluding symphonies and accompaniments to each air, for the piano-forte, violin, flute, etc. composed by Pleyel, Haydn, Weber, Beethoven and others, with the most admired ancient and modern Scottish and English songs, inclusive of the one hundred or more written for it by Burns. We know of no musical work that will be more prized by the professed artist or the amateur.

* * * * *

_George Saint George Julian, the Prince. By Henry Cockton. With
Illustrations. One volume, octavo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

A novel of great popularity and little merit. The admirers of “Valentine Vox,” by the same author, will doubtless be pleased with it.

* * * * *

_Gems from the American Female Poets: With Brief Biographical
Notices. By Rufus W. Griswold. Second Edition. One volume, 12mo.
pp. 192. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

In this elegant little volume the editor has given what he deems the best compositions of some forty American ladies who have written in metre. The second edition is enlarged and otherwise improved. We understand the volume has been introduced into many of the young ladies’ seminaries as a reading book, for which purpose it seems to be well adapted.

* * * * *

_The Gift, a Christmas and New Year’s Present, for MDCCCXLIII.
One volume octavo. With Engravings from Malbone, Huntington,
Inman, Chapman, Sully, etc., by Cheney, Dodson, Pease, etc.
Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

The new volume of the Gift surpasses in the style of its typography and the merit of its pictorial embellishments any annual ever published in this country; and its literary contents will not suffer by comparison with those of any work, American or foreign, of the same description. To prove the correctness of this opinion we have only to remark that all the writers—save one or two of an indifferent stamp of whom we never heard before—are contributors to this magazine. The picture from Huntington—miscalled “Mercy’s _Dream_"—is one of the most exquisite productions in its way with which we are acquainted; “The News-Boy,” from Inman, represents the class which it is designed to portray to the life; and the head from Malbone shows that the high reputation of that artist was not undeserved. The picture from Chapman we cannot praise—a head of eight on a body of eighteen is in bad taste, to say the least of it. The best prose papers in the volume are those by Mrs. “Mary Clavers,” Mr. Smith, Mr. Herbert and Mr. Simms; and the best poem is the one commencing on the first page, by Mrs. Seba Smith.

* * * * *

_The Hand Book of Needlework: With Numerous Engravings. By Miss
Lambert. One vol. 8vo. New York, Wiley & Putnam._

One of the most beautiful books of the season. It embraces ample instructions for drawing patterns, framing and properly finishing needlework, and a curious history of its progress from the days of Moses to the accession of Queen Victoria! The American edition is superior in its execution to that published in London. It will doubtless be among the most popular gift works of the approaching holiday season.

* * * * *

_Hope Leslie: or Early Times in the Massachusetts. By the Author
of “The Linwoods,” “The Poor Rich Man,” “Redwood,” “Live and Let
Live,” “Letters from Abroad,” etc. Two vols. New York, Harper &
Brothers._

We are pleased to see a new edition of this popular novel—the first, and in some respects the best, of Miss Sedgwick’s productions.

* * * * *

_The Rose of Sharon: a Religious Souvenir; for 1843. Boston,
Abel Tompkins._

A very elegant volume, in which the sentiments of the Universalist denomination are inculcated.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE MINSTRELSY OF THE REVOLUTION.

_Permettez que je faisse les chansons d’un peuple, et il fera les lois qui le veut_, remarked, in substance, some shrewd Frenchman; and that he rated not too high the power of song is shown by numerous instances in both ancient and modern history. It has been lamented that we have in America no martial lyrics comparable to those of the older nations. Holmes exclaims in one of his admirable poems—

When Gallia’s flag its triple fold displays,
Her marshaled legions peal the Marseillaise;
When round the German close the war-clouds dim,
Far through their shadows floats his battle hymn;
When, crowned with joy the camps of England ring,
A thousand voices shout “God save the King!”
When Victory follows with our eagle’s glance,
Our nation’s anthem is a _country dance_.[7]

-----

[7] The popular air of “Yankee Doodle,” like the dagger of Hudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose.

* * * * *

But the martial song belongs to more warlike countries. France, Germany and England are vast fortified districts, echoing forever the din of conflict or the notes of military preparation; while America is the resting-place of Peace, whence her influence is to irradiate the world. Or, if a different destiny awaits her, there is little danger but that—

When the roused nation bids her armies form,
And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,
When from our ports the bannered frigate rides,
Her black bows scowling to the crested tides,

Some proud muse

Will rend the silence of our tented plains
And bid the nations tremble at her strains.

The puritan settlers of New England, while carrying on war against the Indian tribes, deemed it right to spend the hours their enemies devoted to profane dances and incantations, in singing verses, half military and half religious; and their actions in the field were celebrated in ballads which lacked none of the spirit and fidelity of the songs of the old bards and scalds, however deficient they may have been in metrical array and sentiment. “Lovewell’s Fight,” “The Gallant Church,” “Smith’s Affair at Sidelong Hill,” and “The Godless French Soldier,” are among the best lyrical compositions of the early period in which they were written, and are not without value as historical records. At the commencement of the Revolution, Barlow, Trumbull, Dwight, Humphreys, and other “Connecticut wits,” employed their leisure in writing patriotic songs for the soldiers and the people, “which,” says a life of Putnam, “had great effect through the country.” “I do not know,” wrote Barlow on entering the army, “whether I shall do more for the cause in the capacity of chaplain than I could in that of poet; I have great faith in the influence of songs; and I shall continue, while fulfilling the duties of my appointment, to write one now and then, and to encourage the taste for them which I find in the camp. One good song is worth a dozen addresses or proclamations.” The great song-writer of the Revolution, however, was Freneau, whose pieces were everywhere sung with enthusiasm. He was a keen satirist, and wrote with remarkable facility; but his lyrics were often profane and vulgar, while those written in New England, on account of their style and cast of thought, were stigmatized by the celebrated Parson Peters as “psalms and hymns adapted to the tastes of Yankee rebels.” The following is a characteristic specimen:

WAR SONG.—_Written in 1776._

Hark, hark, the sound of War is heard,
And we must all attend;
Take up our arms and go with speed
Our country to defend.

Our parent state has turned our foe,
Which fills our land with pain;
Her gallant ships manned out for war
Come thundering o’er the main.

There’s Carleton, Howe, and Clinton too,
And many thousands more,
May cross the sea, but all in vain;
Our rights we’ll ne’er give o’er.

Our pleasant land they do invade,
Our property devour;
And all because we won’t submit
To their despotic power.

Then let us go against our foes,
We’d better die than yield;
We and our sons are all undone
If Britain win the field.

Tories may dream of future joys,
But I am bold to say,
They’ll find themselves bound fast in chains
If Britain wins the day.

Husbands must leave their loving wives
And sprightly youths attend,
Leave their sweethearts and risk their lives
Their country to defend.

May they be heroes in the field,
Have heroes’ fame in store;
We pray the Lord to be their shield
Where thundering cannons roar.

The oldest of the lyrics we shall present in this paper—we reserve, perhaps for a future number, the historical songs and ballads unconnected with the Revolution—is the “Patriot’s Appeal,” printed in the Pennsylvania Chronicle, at Philadelphia, on the 4th of July, just eight years before the Declaration of Independence. We copy it from a ballad sheet, dated in 1775.

THE PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

Come join hand and hand brave Americans all,
Awake through the land at fair Liberty’s call;
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,
Or stain with dishonor America’s name!
In freedom we’re born, in freedom we’ll live;
Our purses are ready—
Steady, friends, steady!—
Not as slaves but as freemen our money we’ll give!

Our worthy forefathers (let’s give them a cheer!)
To climates unknown did courageously steer;
Through oceans to deserts for freedom they came
And, dying, bequeathed us their freedom and fame!
In freedom, etc.

Their generous bosoms all dangers despised,
So highly, so wisely, their birthrights they prized;
What they gave let us cherish and piously keep,
Nor frustrate their toils on the land or the deep.
In freedom, etc.

The tree their own hands had to liberty reared,
They lived to behold growing strong and revered;
With transport they cried, “Now our wishes we gain,
For our children shall gather the fruits of our pain.”
In freedom, etc.

How sweet are the labors that freemen endure,
Of which they enjoy all the profits secure!
No longer such toils shall Americans know,
If Britons may reap what Americans sow!
In freedom, etc.

Swarms of _placemen_ and pensioners e’en now appear
Like locusts deforming the charms of the year!
Suns vainly will rise and showers vainly descend,
If we are to drudge for what others may spend.
In freedom, etc.

Then join hand and hand, brave Americans all,
By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall;
In so righteous a cause we may hope to succeed,
For Heaven approves every generous deed.
In freedom, etc.

All ages and nations shall speak with applause,
Of the courage we show in support of our cause,
To die we can bear, but to serve we disdain,
For shame is to freemen more dreadful than pain.
In freedom, etc.

A bumper to Freedom! and as for the king,[8]
When he does deserve it his praises we’ll sing!
We wish Britain’s glory immortal may be,
If she is but just and we are but free!
In freedom we’re born, in freedom we’ll live,
Our purses are ready—
Steady, boys, steady!—
Our money as freemen, not slaves, we will give!

-----

[8] In the copies of this song printed during the Revolution the last stanza is altered. In the Pennsylvania Chronicle, which we have examined, it is printed—

This bumper I crown for our sovereign’s health,
And this for Britannia’s glory and wealth, etc.

* * * * *

Soon after the passage of the stamp act many patriotic lyrics appeared in various parts of the country, one of the best of which is the following, by Doctor Prime, of New York, the author of “Muscipula sive Cambromyomachia,” a satire, and of several other poems of considerable merit.

A SONG FOR THE SONS OF LIBERTY.

In story we’re told,
How our fathers of old
Brav’d the rage of the wind and the waves;
And cross’d the deep o’er,
To this desolate shore,
All because they were loath to be slaves, brave boys!
All because they were loath to be slaves.

Yet a strange scheme of late,
Has been formed in the state,
By a knot of political knaves;
Who in secret rejoice,
That the Parliament’s voice
Has resolved that we all shall be slaves, brave boys! etc.

But if we should obey,
This vile statute the way
To more base future slavery paves;
Nor in spite of our pain,
Must we ever complain,
If we tamely submit to be slaves, brave boys! etc.

Counteract, then, we must
A decree so unjust,
Which our wise constitution depraves;
And all nature conspires,
To approve our desires,
For she cautions us not to be slaves, brave boys! etc.

As the sun’s lucid ray
To all nations gives day,
And a world from obscurity saves;
So all happy and free,
George’s subjects should be,
Then Americans must not be slaves, brave boys! etc.

Heaven only controls
The great deep as it rolls,
And the tide which our country laves
Emphatical roars
This advice to our shores,
O! Americans, never be slaves, brave boys! etc.

Hark! the wind, as it flies,
Though o’errul’d by the skies,
While it each meaner obstacle braves,
Seems to say, “Be like me,
Always loyally free,
But ah! never consent to be slaves,” brave boys! etc.

To our monarch, we know,
Due allegiance we owe,
Who the sceptre so rightfully waves;
But no sovereign we own,
But the king on his throne,
And we cannot, to subjects, be slaves, brave boys! etc.

Though fools stupidly tell,
That we mean to rebel,
Yet all each American craves,
Is but to be free,
As we surely must be,
For we never were born to be slaves, brave boys! etc.

But whoever, in spite
At American right,
Like insolent Haman behaves;
Or would wish to grow great
On the spoils of the state,
May he and his children be slaves, brave boys! etc.

Though against the repeal,
With intemperate zeal,
Proud Granville so brutishly raves;
Yet our conduct shall show,
And our enemies know,
That Americans scorn to be slaves, brave boys! etc.

With the beasts of the wood,
We will ramble for food,
We will lodge in wild deserts and caves;
And live poor as Job,
On the skirts of the globe,
Before we’ll submit to be slaves, brave boys! etc.

The birth-right we hold
Shall never be sold,
But sacred maintain’d to our graves;
And before we’ll comply,
We will gallantly die,
For we must not, we will not be slaves, brave boys!
For we must not, we will not be slaves!

We have copies of four metrical accounts of the destruction of the tea in Boston Harbor, two of which appear to have been written since the close of the war. We give one of the oldest, which was sung to the tune of “The Hosier’s Ghost.”

BALLAD OF THE TEA PARTY.

As near beauteous Boston lying
On the gently swelling flood,
Without jack or pennant flying,
Three ill-fated tea-ships rode;

Just as glorious Sol was setting,
On the wharf a numerous crew,
Sons of Freedom, fear forgetting,
Suddenly appeared in view.

Armed with hammers, axes, chisels,
Weapons new for warlike deed,
Toward the tax’d-tea-freighted vessels
They came boldly and with speed.

O’er their heads in lofty mid-sky,
Three bright angel forms were seen,
This was Hampden, that was Sidney,
With fair Liberty between.

“Soon,” they cried, “your foes you’ll banish,
Soon the triumph will be won,
Scarce the setting sun shall vanish
Ere the glorious deed is done!”

Quick as thought the ships were boarded,
Hatches burst and chests displayed;
Axes, hammers, help afforded,
What a crush that eve was made!

Deep into the sea descended
Cursed weed of China’s coast;
Thus at once our fears were ended!—
British rights shall ne’er be lost!

Captains, once more hoist your streamers,
Spread your sails and plough the wave,
Tell your masters _they were dreamers_
_When they thought to cheat the brave_!

One of the most ingenious poets of our revolutionary era was Dr. J. M. Sewall, of New Hampshire. He translated the works of Ossian, which were then attracting much attention, into English verse, and wrote numerous songs, odes, elegies and dramatic pieces. His epilogue to Addison’s Cato, beginning,

We see mankind the same in every age,

is still familiar, from having been incorporated into two or three books of reading lessons for the schools, in a time when it was thought to be of some consequence that works of that description should inculcate patriotic sentiments. The most famous of his productions, however, was “War and Washington,” written soon after the battle of Lexington, and sung with enthusiasm, in all parts of the country, until the close of the Revolution. It has been too often printed to be regarded now as a curiosity, and we therefore quote from it but a few verses.

Vain Britons boast no longer, with proud indignity,
Of all your conquering legions, or of your strength at sea,
As we, your braver sons, incensed, our arms have girded on,
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for War and Washington!

Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England’s good,
They have, for thirty pieces, betray’d their country’s blood.
Like Esop’s greedy cur they’ll gain a shadow for their bone,
Yet find us fearful shades indeed, inspired by Washington!

Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!
The blundering schemes of Britain, her folly, pride and zeal.
Like lions how they growl and threat, like asses blunder on!
Yet vain are all their efforts still, against our Washington!

Great God! is this the nation, whose arms so oft were hurl’d,
Through Europe, Afric, India? whose Navy rul’d a world!
The lustre of her former deeds, whole ages of renown,
Lost in a moment, or transfer’d, to us and Washington!

Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,
And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy
Turk, Hessian, Jew or Infidel, or all those powers in one,
While Adams guides our senate, our army Washington!

We have not room to copy, _in extenso_, more of those songs which served no less than the most eloquent orations of the time to kindle the patriotic enthusiasm of our fathers, in the first years of the struggle for independence; and after giving specimen verses of one or two others, will pass to the more strictly historical ballads. We may as well here remark that the orthography and rhythmical construction of many of the old songs and ballads varies in the different editions—the earliest usually being most correct—and that we have copied from the least inharmonious and corrupt, sometimes giving one verse from one and another verse from another impression of the same production. The following stanzas are from “The Rallying Song,” written soon after the friendly disposition of the government of the unfortunate Louis XIV. was made known in this country.

Freedom’s sons who wish to shine
Bright in future story,
Haste to arms and join the line
Marching on to glory.
Leave the scythe and seize the sword,
Brave the worst of dangers!
Freedom is the only word—
We to fear are strangers.

From your mountains quick advance
Hearts of oak and iron arms—
Lo! the cheering sounds from France
Spread amid the foe alarms!
Leave the scythe and seize the sword,
Brave the worst of dangers!
Freedom is the only word—
_Come and join the Rangers!_

From “The Green Mountain Boys’ Song,” composed, apparently, in the early part of the contest, we have space for the chorus only. Though less poetical than some others, the entire production is animated in sentiment and smoothly versified. We have no clue to its authorship, though, like “The Rallying Song,” “The American Rifleman,” and many other lyrics of the same description, it appears to have been written in Vermont.

Then draw the trusty blade, my boys,
And fling the sheath away—
Blow high, blow low, come weal, come wo,
Strike for America!
Strike for America, my boys,
Strike for America!
Come weal, come wo, blow high, blow low,
Strike for America!

We have discovered but one narrative song relating to the Battle of Trenton, and that was probably written a year or two after the event.

BATTLE OF TRENTON.

On Christmas day in ’76,
Our rugged troops with bayonets fix’d,
For Trenton marched away.
The Delaware see, the boats below,
The light obscured by hail and snow,
But no signs of dismay.

Our object was the Hessian band,
That dared invade fair Freedom’s land,
And quarter in that place.
Great Washington he led us on,
Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,
Had never known disgrace.

In silent march we pass’d the night,
Each soldier panting for the fight,
Though quite benumb’d with frost.
Greene on the left, at six began,
The right was with brave Sullivan,
Who ne’er a moment lost.

Their pickets storm’d, the alarm was spread,
That rebels risen from the dead
Were marching into town.
Some scamper’d here, some scamper’d there,
And some for action did prepare,
But soon their arms laid down.

Twelve hundred servile miscreants,
With all their colors, guns and tents,
Were trophies of the day.
The frolic o’er, the bright canteen,
In centre, front, and rear was seen
Driving fatigue away.

Now, brothers of the patriot bands,
Let’s sing deliverance from the hands
Of arbitrary sway.
And as our life is but a span,
Let’s touch the tankard while we can,
In memory of that day.

Burgoyne, more frequently than other British officer, was the butt of the continental wits. His verses were parodied, his amours celebrated in songs of the mess-table, and his boasts and the weaker points in his nature caricatured in ballads and _petite_ comedies. We obtained a manuscript copy of the song from which the following verses are quoted, from an octogenarian Vermonter who, with the feeble frame, shrill voice and silvered locks of eighty-seven, would give the echoing chorus with as much enthusiasm as when he joined in it with his camp-companions more than half a century ago.

THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG.

Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
These rebels their course very quickly will rue,
And fly as the leaves ’fore the autumn tempest flew,
When _him who is your leader_ they know, boys!
They with _men_ have now to deal,
And we soon will make them feel—
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
That a loyal Briton’s arm and a loyal Briton’s steel
Can put to flight a rebel as quick as other foe, boys!
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo—
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

As to Sa-ra-tog’ he came, thinking how to _jo_ the game,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,
He began to have the _trembles_ lest a flash should be the flame,
For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!
No lack of skill, but fates,
Shall makes us yield to Gates,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States,
But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo—
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

We believe the “Progress of Sir Jack Brag” has never been printed. The only clue to its authorship with which we are acquainted is the signature, “G. of H.” It was probably written soon after the defeat of its hero at Saratoga. Another ballad on the same subject is entitled

THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE.[9][10]

When Jack the king’s commander
Was going to his duty,
Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed
To every blooming beauty.

The city rung with feats he’d done
In Portugal and Flanders,
And all the town thought he’d be crowned
The first of Alexanders.

To Hampton Court he first repairs
To kiss great George’s hand, sirs;
Then to harangue on state affairs
Before he left the land, sirs.

The “Lower House” sat mute as mouse
To hear his grand oration;
And “all the peers,” with loudest cheers,
Proclaimed him to the nation.

Then off he went to Canada,
Next to Ticonderoga,
And quitting those away he goes
Straightway to Saratoga.

With great parade his march he made
To gain his wished-for station.
While far and wide his minions hied
To spread his “proclamation.”

To such as staid he offers made
Of “_pardon_ on _submission_;
But savage bands should waste the lands
Of all in opposition.”

But ah, the cruel fates of war!
This boasted son of Britain,
When mounting his triumphal car
With sudden fear was smitten.

The sons of Freedom gathered round,
His hostile bands confounded,
And when they’d fain have turned their back
They found themselves surrounded!

In vain they fought, in vain they fled,
Their chief, humane and tender,
To save the rest soon thought it best
His forces to surrender.

Brave St. Clair when he first retired
Knew what the fates portended;
And Arnold and heroic Gates
His conduct have defended.

Thus may America’s brave sons
With honor be rewarded,
_And be the fate of all her foes_
_The same as here recorded_.

-----

[9] The following curious account of the overthrow of Burgoyne at Saratoga, on the 17th of October, 1777, was probably written soon after that memorable event.

Here followeth the direful fate
Of Burgoyne and his army great
Who so proudly did display
The terrors of despotic sway.
His power and pride and many threats
Have been brought low by fort’nate Gates,
To bend to the United States.

[10]

British prisoners by Convention, 2142 Foreigners—by Contra-vention, 2188 Tories sent across the Lake, 1100 Burgoyne and his suite, in state, 12

Sick and wounded, bruised and pounded,} 528 Ne’er so much before confounded,}

Prisoners of war before Convention, 400 Deserters come with kind intention, 300

They lost at Bennington’s great battle, } 1220 Where Starke’s glorious arms did rattle,}

Killed in September and October, 600 Ta’en by brave Brown,[A] some drunk, some sober, 413

Slain by high-flamed Herkerman[B]} 300 On both flanks, on rear and van, }

Indians, suttlers, butchers, drovers,} Enough to crowd large plains all over,} And those whom grim Death did prevent} From fighting against our continent;} 4413 And also those who stole away,} Lest they down their arms should lay,} Abhorring that obnoxious day: }

The whole make fourteen thousand men, } 14,000 Who may not with us fight again. }

This is a pretty just account
Of Burgoyne’s legions’ whole amount,
Who came across the Northern Lakes
To desolate our happy States.
Their brass cannons we have got all—
Fifty-six—both great and small;
And ten thousand stand of arms,
To prevent all future harms;
Stores and implements complete,
Of workmanship exceeding neat;
Covered wagons in great plenty,
And proper harness, no way scanty.
Among our prisoners there are
Six generals, of fame most rare;
Six members of their Parliament—
Reluctantly they seem content;
Three British lords, and Lord Belcarras,
Who came, our country free to harass.
Two baronets, of high extraction,
Were sorely wounded in the action.

[A] Col. John Brown, of Mass.

[B] Gen. Herkimer, of N. York, (probably.)

* * * * *

The Massacre of Wyoming was minutely described in several ballads written before the year 1785, which, we were surprised to find, are unnoticed by Mr. Stone and the other historians of that celebrated valley. They will probably be preserved in Mr. Miner’s forthcoming “Annals.” We quote a few stanzas from the longest one in our possession.

Now as they fly, they _quarters_ cry,
Oh hear, indulgent Heaven!
How hard to state their dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given!

Some men were found, a-flying round,
Sagacious to get clear;
In vain they fly, the foe is nigh,
On flank, in front, and rear!

The enemy did win the day,
Methinks their words were these:
“You cursed rebel Yankee race,
_Will this your Congress please_?”

The death of Andre—just and necessary as it unquestionably was—has been lamented in a hundred songs; while the chivalrous and accomplished Hale, murdered with a brutality that would have shocked the sensibilities of the most depraved and desperate brigands, is alluded to in but a single ballad among those which have been preserved until our own time. We transcribe, from the oldest copy in our possession, the once popular lyric called

BRAVE PAWLING AND THE SPY.

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 resolved 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 Pawling 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 resolved that you shall ne’er pass by.”
Upon examination they found he was a spy.

He begged 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 want not 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, O, 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 brave and bold,
And I fear not the face of clay, although ’tis clothed in gold.”

He saw that his conspiracy would soon be brought to light;
He begg’d for pen and paper, and asked 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 cheeks did wet;
The story soon went thro’ the camp, and also thro’ the fort;
And he called for the Vulture, and sailed for New-York.

Now Arnold to New York has gone, a fighting for his king,
And left poor Major Andre, on the gallows for to swing;
When he was executed, he look’d both meek and mild;
He look’d on his spectators, and pleasantly he smiled.

It moved each eye with pity, caused every heart to bleed;
And every one wish’d him released 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 PAWLING! 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!

In connection with this we give a specimen of the minstrelsy of the other party. The British and Tories were not often in a singing mood, and their ballads, with few exceptions, are inferior in spirit and temper to those of the Whigs. There is some wit, however, in the following, which is said to have been written by Major Andre—

THE COW CHASE.