Chapter LIII: 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.