Chapter LIV: 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.