You left all you had for his honour 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 labour 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 day time 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.[Pg 8]
6
Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,
The French and the Rebels are coming next summer, And forts we must build
Though Tories are kill'd--
Then 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 labour'd and bled,
And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.
'Tis an honour to serve the bravest of nations, And be left to be hang'd 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.
[5] According to Frank Moore's Songs and Ballads of the Revolution, this poem was first issued as a ballad-sheet in 1779. It was
reprinted in the Freeman's Journal, April 17, 1782, and was published in the author's three editions. The text follows the edition of
1795.
Sir Henry Clinton was left in command of New York City, July 5, 1777, when Howe started on his expedition for the capture of
Philadelphia. Freneau's poem indicates his treatment of the Tory refugees. [Pg 9]
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY AND MR. FOX[6]
Supposed to have passed about the time of the approach of the combined fleets of France and Spain to the British coasts, August,
1779.
King G.
Good master Fox,[7] your counsel I implore,
Still George the third, but potent George no more. By North conducted to the brink of fate,
I mourn my folly and my pride too late: The promises he made, when once we met In Kew's gay shades,[A] I never shall forget,
That at my feet the western world should fall, And bow to me the potent lord of all--
Curse on his hopes, his councils and his schemes,
His plans of conquest, and his golden dreams,[Pg 10] These have allur'd me to the jaws of hell,
By Satan tempted thus Iscariot fell: Divested of majestic pomp I come,
My royal robes and airs I've left at home,
Speak freely, friend, whate'er you choose to say, Suppose me equal with yourself to-day:
How shall I shun the mischiefs that impend? How shall I make Columbia[B] yet my friend?
7
I dread the power of each revolted State,
The convex East hangs balanc'd with their weight. How shall I dare the rage of France and Spain, And lost dominion o'er the waves regain?
Advise me quick, for doubtful while we stand, Destruction gathers o'er this wretched land: These hostile squadrons to my ruin led,
These Gallic thunders fill my soul with dread,
If these should conquer--Britain, thou must fall
And bend, a province, to the haughty Gaul:
If this must be--thou earth, expanding wide, Unlucky George in thy dark entrails hide-- Ye oceans, wrap me in your dark embrace--
Ye mountains, shroud me to your lowest base-- Fall on my head, ye everlasting rocks--
But why so pensive, my good master Fox?[8] [A] The royal gardens at Kew.--Freneau's note.
[B] America, so called, by poetical liberty, from its discoverer.--Freneau's note.
Fox
While in the arms of power and peace you lay, Ambition led your restless soul astray.
Possest of lands extending far and wide,
And more than Rome could boast in all her pride,[Pg 11] Yet, not contented with that mighty store,
Like a true miser, still you sought for more; And, all in raptures for a tyrant's reign,
You strove your subjects dearest rights to chain:
Those ruffian hosts beyond the ocean sent,
By your commands on blood and murder bent, With cruel hand the form of man defac'd,
And laid the toils of art and nature waste. (For crimes like these imperial Britain bends, For crimes like these her ancient glory ends) These lands, once truest to your name and race, Whom the wide ocean's utmost waves embrace, Your just protection basely you deny'd,
Their towns you plunder'd, and you burnt beside. Virginia's slaves, without one blush of shame,
Against their lords[9] you arm'd with sword and flame;
At every port your ships of war you laid, And strove to ruin and distress their trade,
Yet here, ev'n here, your mighty projects fail'd; For then from creeks their hardy seamen sail'd, In slender barques they cross'd a stormy main,
And traffick'd for the wealth of France and Spain;
O'er either tropic and the line they pass'd, And, deeply laden, safe return'd at last:
Nor think they yet had bow'd to Britain's sway, Though distant nations had not join'd the fray, Alone they fought your armies and your fleet, And made your Clintons and your Howes retreat, And yet while France stood doubting if to join,
Your ships they captur'd, and they took Burgoyne! How vain is Briton's strength, her armies now Before Columbia's bolder veterans bow;[Pg 12] Her gallant veterans all our force despise,
8
Though late from ruin[C] we beheld them rise; Before their arms our strongest bulwarks fall,
They storm the rampart and they scale the wall;[D] With equal dread, on either service sent,
They seize a fortress, or they strike a tent. But should we bow beneath a foreign yoke,
And potent France atchieve the humbling stroke, Yet every power, and even ourselves, must say, "Just is the vengeance of the skies to-day:"
For crimes like ours dire vengeance[10] must atone; Forbear your fasts, and let the skies[11] alone--
By cruel kings, in fierce Britannia bred,
Such seas of blood have first and last been shed,
That now, distrest for each inhuman deed,
Our turn has come--our turn has come to bleed: Forbear your groans; for war and death array, March to the foe, and give the fates their way.
Can you[12] behold, without one hearty groan,