[G] Captain of the Asia man of war, who cannonaded the city.—Freneau's note.

[H] August, 1775.—Ib.

[I] A cant phrase among privateers men.—Freneau's note.

[J] A noted Inn-holder in New-York.—Ib. "Black Sam."—Ed. 1786.

[K] From Long-Island.—Freneau's note.

As matters have gone, it was plainly a blunder,
 But then I expected the Whigs must knock under,
 And I always adhere to the sword that is longest,
 And stick to the party that's like to be strongest:
 That you have succeeded is merely a chance,
 I never once dreamt of the conduct of France!—
 If alliance with her you were promised—at least
 You ought to have showed me your Star in the East,
 Nor let me go off uninformed as a beast.
 When your army I saw without stockings or shoes,
 Or victuals—or money, to pay them their dues,
 (Excepting your wretched Congressional paper,
 That stunk in my nose like the smoke of a taper,
 A cart load of which for a dram might be spent all,
 That damnable bubble the old Continental,
 That took people in at this wonderful crisis,
 With its mottoes and emblems, and cunning devices;
 Which, bad as it was, you were forced to admire,
 And which was, in fact, the pillar of fire,
 To which you directed your wandering noses,
 Like the Jews in the desert conducted by Moses)
 When I saw them attended with famine and fear,
 Distress in their front, and Howe in their rear;
 When I saw them for debt incessantly dunned,
 Not a shilling to pay them laid up in your fund;
 Your ploughs at a stand, and your ships run ashore—
 When this was apparent (and need I say more?)
 I handled my cane, and I looked at my hat,
 And cryed—"God have mercy on armies like that!"
 I took up my bottle, disdaining to stay,
 And said—"Here's a health to the Vicar of Bray,"
 And cocked up my beaver, and—strutted away.
Ashamed of my conduct, I sneaked into town,
 (Six hours and a quarter the sun had been down)
 It was, I remember, a cold frosty night,
 And the stars in the firmament glittered as bright
 As if (to assume a poetical stile)
 Old Vulcan had give them a rub with his file.
 'Till this cursed night, I can honestly say,
 I ne'er before dreaded the dawn of the day;
 Not a wolf or a fox that is caught in a trap
 E'er was so ashamed of his nightly mishap—
 I couldn't help thinking what ills might befall me,
 What rebels and rascals the British would call me,
 And how I might suffer in credit and purse,
 If not in my person, which still had been worse:
 At length I resolved (as was surely my duty)
 To go for advice to parson Auchmuty;[L]
 The parson, who now I hope is in glory,
 Was then upon earth, and a terrible[224] tory,
 Not Cooper[M] himself, of ideas perplext,
 So nicely could handle and torture a text,
 When bloated with lies, through his trumpet he sounded
 The damnable sin of opposing a crowned head;
 Like a penitent sinner, and dreading my fate,
 In the grey of the morning I knocked at his gate;
 (No doubt he was vexed that I roused him so soon,
 For his saintship was mostly in blankets 'till noon.)
 At length he approached in his vestments of black—
 (Alas, my poor heart! it was then on the rack,
 Like a man in an ague, or one to be tried;
 I shook—and recanted, and blubbered, and sighed)
 His gown, of itself, was amazingly big,
 Besides, he had on his canonical wig,
 And frowned at a distance; but, when I came near,
 Looked pleasant and said—"What, Hugh, are you here!
 "Your heart, I am certain, is horribly hardened,
 "But if you confess—your sin will be pardoned;
 "In spite of my preachments, and all I could say,
 "Like the prodigal son, you wandered away,
 "Now tell me, dear penitent, which is the best,
 "To be with the rebels, pursued and distrest,
 "Devoid of all comfort, all hopes of relief,
 "Or else to be here, and partake the king's beef?
 "More people resemble the snake than the dove,
 "And more are converted by terror than love:
 "Like a sheep on the mountains, or rather a swine,
 "You wandered away from the ninety and nine:
 "Awhile at the offers of mercy you spurned,
 "But your error you saw, and at length have returned:
 "Our Master will therefore consider your case,
 "And restore you again to favour and grace,
 "Great light shall arise from utter confusion,
 "And rebels shall live to lament their delusion."
 "Ah, rebels! (said I) they are rebels indeed—
 "Chastisement, I hope, by the king is decreed:
 "They have hung up his subjects with bed-cords and halters,
 "And banished his prophets, and thrown down his altars.
 "And I—even I—while I ventured to stay,
 "They sought for my life—to take it away!
 "I therefore propose to come under your wing,
 "A foe to rebellion—a slave to the king."

[L] A high church Episcopalian, then rector of Trinity Church, N. Y., since deceased.—Freneau's note.

[M] Miles Cooper, President of Kings (now Columbia College).—Ib.

Such solemn confession,[225] in scriptural stile
 Worked out my salvation, at least for a while;
 The parson pronounced me deserving of grace,
 And so they restored me to printing and place.
 But days, such as these, were too happy to last:
 The sand of felicity settled too fast!
 When I swore and protested I honoured the throne
 The least they could do was to let me alone;
 Though George I compared to an angel above,
 They wanted some solider proofs of my love;
 And so they obliged me each morning to come
 And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum,
 While often, too often (I tell it with pain)
 They menaced my head with a hickory cane,
 While others, my betters, as much were opprest—
 But shame and confusion shall cover the rest.
 You, doubtless, will think I am dealing in fable
 When I tell you I guard an officer's stable—
 With usage like this my feelings are stung;
 The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung!
 Six hours in the day is duty too hard,
 And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard,
 And laughs till his sides are ready to split
 With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit:
 Because he's excused, on account of his post
 He cannot go by without making his boast,
 As if I was all that is servile and mean—
 But Fortune, perhaps, may alter the scene,
 And give him his turn to stand in the street,
 Burnt brandy supporting his animal heat—[226]
 But what for the king or the cause has he done
 That we must be toiling while he can look on?
 Great conquests he gave them on paper—'tis true[227]
 When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue;
 Alack! it's too plain that Britons must fall—
 When loaded with laurels—they go to the wall.
 From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve,
 And where we are going I cannot conceive—
 The wisest among us a change are expecting,
 It is not for nothing, these ships are collecting,
 It is not for nothing, that Matthews, the mayor,
 And legions of Tories, for sailing prepare;
 It is not for nothing, that John Coghill Knap
 Is filing his papers, and plugging his tap;
 See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney,
 Is boiling potatoes, to serve a long journey;
 But where they are going, or meaning to travel,
 Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel,
 Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens,
 Perhaps to St. John's, in the gulph of St. Lawrence;
 Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold,
 Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold,
 Where, scorched by the summer, all nature repines,
 Where Phœbus, great Phœbus, too glaringly shines,
 And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray
 Oppresses the isle with a torrent of day.
 Since matters are thus, with proper submission
 Permit me to offer my humble Petition:
 (Though the form is uncommon, and lawyers may sneer,
 With truth I can tell you, the scribe is sincere.)
That, since it is plain we are going away,
 You will suffer Hugh Gaine unmolested to stay,
 His sand is near run (life itself is a span)
 So leave him to manage the best that he can:
 Whoe'er are his masters, or monarchs, or regents,
 For the future he's ready to swear them allegiance;
 The Crown he will promise to hold in disgrace:[228]
 The Bible—allow him to stick in its place,
 'Till that, in due season, you wish to put down
 And bid him keep shop at the sign of the crown.
 If the Turk with his turban should set up at last here
 While he gives him protection, he'll own him his master,
 And yield due obedience (when Britain is gone)
 Though ruled by the sceptre of Presbyter John.
 My press, that has called you (as tyranny drove her)
 Rogues, rebels, and rascals, a thousand times over,
 Shall be at your service by day and by night,
 To publish whate'er you think proper to write;
 Those types which have raised George the third to a level
 With angels—shall prove him as black as the devil,
 To him that contrived him a shame and disgrace,
 Nor blest with one virtue to honour his race!
 Who knows but, in time, I may rise to be great,
 And have the good fortune to manage a State?
 Great noise among people great changes denotes,
 And I shall have money to purchase their votes—
 The time is approaching, I venture to say,
 When folks worse than me will come into play,
 When your double faced[229] people will give themselves airs,
 And aim to take hold of the helm of affairs,
 While the honest bold soldier, who sought your renown,
 Like a dog in the dirt, shall be crushed and held down.
 Of honours and profits allow me a share!
 I frequently dream of a president's chair!
 And visions full often intrude on my brain,
 That for me to interpret, would rather be vain.
 Blest seasons advance, when Britons[230] shall find
 That they can be happy, and you[231] can be kind,
 When Rebels no longer at Traitors shall spurn,
 When Arnold himself will in triumph return!
 But my paper informs me it's time to conclude;
 I fear my Address has been rather too rude—
 If it has—for my boldness your pardon I pray,
 And further, at present, presume not to say,
 Except that (for form's sake) in haste I remain
 Your humble Petitioner—honest—Hugh Gaine.[232]

[214] First published in the Freeman's Journal in several installments, the first appearing Jan. 8, 1783. Hugh Gaine began as a printer in New York in 1750, and two years later established the New York Mercury. His imprint for many years was "Printed by Hugh Gaine, Printer, Bookseller, Stationer, at the Bible and Crown, in Hanover Square." Upon the beginning of hostilities with England he at first sided with the patriots. "Gaine's political creed it seems was to join the strongest party. When the British troops were about to take possession of New York in 1776, he left the city and set up his press at Newark; but soon after, in the belief that appearances were against the ultimate success of the United States, be privately withdrew from Newark and returned to New York. At the conclusion of the war, he petitioned the State legislature for leave to remain in the city and, having obtained permission, his press was employed in book printing, etc., but his newspaper was discontinued when the British army left."—Thomas' History of Philadelphia. I have used the text from the edition of 1809.

[215] "It is to be questioned if Gaine ever wrote a petition."—Paul Leicester Ford.

[216] "Drug shop."—Ed. 1786.

[217] "Dog house."—Ib.

[218] "Fellow."—Ed. 1786.

[219] "To gain a mere trifle, a shilling or so."—Ed. 1786.

[220] General Gage's Soliloquy, and General Gage's Confession, both printed in 1775.

[221] "Under orders from the New York Convention Isaac Sears, in the night of the twenty-fourth of August [1775] removed cannon from the battery of the city. Captain Vandeput of the Asia, a British man-of-war in the harbor of the city, kept up a heavy but ineffective fire on the working party, who succeeded in removing twenty-one eighteen pounders with their carriages. It was feared that a bombardment would follow and families began to retreat into the country."—Bancroft.

[222] This line and the following not in the 1786 edition.

[223] "At first we supposed it was only a sham."—Ed. 1786.

[224] "Moderate."—Ed. 1786.

[225] "Pitiful whining."—Ed. 1795.

[226]

"With his paunch of a hog, and his brains of an oyster,
 Whence the mischief came he with his radical moisture."—Ed. 1786.

[227] This line and the three following not in the edition of 1786.

[228] This line and the three following not in the original version.

[229] "The false-hearted Tory."—Ed. 1786.

[230] "Tories."—Ed. 1786.

[231] "Whigs."—Ib.

[232] Dr. Francis, in his paper on Christopher Colles, records this story:

"While on one of his visits at Gaine's a customer saluted him loudly by name, the sound of which arrested the attention of the old Royalist, who, lifting up his eyes, interrogated him: 'Is your name Freneau?' 'Yes,' answered the Republican poet. 'Philip Freneau?' rejoined Gaine. 'Yes sir! the same.' 'Then, sir,' warmly uttered Gaine, 'you are a very clever fellow. Let me have the pleasure of taking you by the hand. Will you walk round the corner and join me in my parlor. We will take a glass of wine together. You, sir, have given me and my paper a wide reputation."

STANZAS[233]

Occasioned by the Departure of the British from Charleston,
December 14, 1782

His triumphs of a moment done,
 His race of desolation run,
 The Briton, yielding to his fears,
 To other shores with sorrow steers:
To other shores—and coarser climes
 He goes, reflecting on his crimes,
 His broken oaths, a murdered Hayne,
 And blood of thousands, spilt in vain.
To Cooper's stream, advancing slow,
 Ashley no longer tells his woe;
 No longer mourns his limpid flood
 Discoloured deep with human blood.
Lo! where those social streams combine,
 Again the friends of Freedom join;
 And, while they stray, where once they bled,
 Rejoice to find their tyrants fled.
Since memory paints that dismal day
 When British squadrons held the sway,
 And circling close on every side,
 By sea and land retreat denied—
Can she recall that mournful scene,
 And not the virtues of a Greene,
 Who great in war—in danger tried,
 Has won the day, and crushed their pride.
Through barren wastes and ravaged lands,
 He led his bold undaunted bands;
 Through sickly climes his standard bore
 Where never army marched before:
By fortitude, with patience joined,
 (The virtues of a noble mind)
 He spread, where'er our wars are known,
 His country's honour and his own.
Like Hercules, his generous plan
 Was to redress the wrongs of men;
 Like him, accustomed to subdue,
 He freed a world from monsters too.
Through every want and every ill
 We saw him persevering still,
 Through Autumn's damps and Summer's heat,
 'Till his great purpose was complete.
Like the bold eagle, from the skies
 That stoops, to seize his trembling prize,
 He darted on the slaves of kings
 At Camden plains and Eutaw Springs.
Ah! had our friends that led the fray
 Survived the ruins of that day,
 We should not damp our joy with pain,
 Nor, sympathizing, now complain.
Strange! that of those who nobly dare
 Death always claims so large a share,
 That those of virtue most refined
 Are soonest to the grave consigned!—
But fame is theirs—and future days
 On pillared brass shall tell their praise;
 Shall tell—when cold neglect is dead—
 "These for their country fought and bled."

[233] Published in the Freeman's Journal, February 19, 1783, and copied by the Charleston Weekly Gazette, May 13 following. Text from the edition of 1809.

ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH[234]

Recommending Peace with the American States

Grown sick of war, and war's alarms,
 Good George has changed his note at last—
 Conquest and death have lost their charms;
 He, and his nation stand aghast,
 To think what fearful lengths they've gone,
 And what a brink they stand upon.
Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell,
 If you advised him to retreat
 Before our vanquished thousands fell,
 Prostrate, submissive at his feet:
 Awake once more his latent flame,
 And bid us yield you all you claim.[235]
The Macedonian wept and sighed
 Because no other world was found
 Where he might glut his rage and pride,
 And by its ruin be renowned;
 The world that Sawney wished to view
 George fairly had—and lost it too!
Let jarring powers make war or peace,
 Monster!—no peace can greet your breast:
 Our murdered friends can never cease
 To hover round and break your rest!
 The Furies will your bosom tear,
 Remorse, distraction, and despair
 And hell, with all its fiends, be there!
Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail
 Hence, freighted for your odious shore;
 May tempests o'er her strength prevail,
 Destruction round her roar!
 May Nature all her aids deny,
 The sun refuse his light,
 The needle from its object fly,
 No star appear by night:
 'Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime,
 Directs the prow to some more Christian[236] clime.
Genius! that first our race designed,
 To other kings impart
 The finer feelings of the mind,
 The virtues of the heart;
 Whene'er the honours of a throne
 Fall to the bloody and the base,
 Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down,
 Like his, be their disgrace!
Hibernia, seize each native right!
 Neptune, exclude him from the main;
 Like her that sunk with all her freight,
 The Royal George,[237] take all his fleet,
 And never let them rise again:
 Confine him to his gloomy isle,
 Let Scotland rule her half,
 Spare him to curse his fate awhile,
 And Whitehead,[A] thou to write his epitaph.

[A] William Whitehead, Poet Laureat to his Majesty—author of the execrable birth-day Odes.—Freneau's note, Ed. 1786.

[234] First published in the Freeman's Journal, March 12, 1783. "King George of England was mastered by a consuming grief for the loss of America, and knew no ease of mind by day or by night. When on the fifth of December [1782], in his speech at the opening of Parliament, he came to read that he had offered to declare the colonies of America free and independent States, his manner was constrained and his voice full."—Bancroft.

[235] "And feed with hope his heart's desire."—Ed. 1786.

[236] "Grateful."—Ed. 1786.

[237] The Royal George, 108 guns, while being refitted at Spithead, August 29, 1782, was heeled over too far by her crew, causing her suddenly to sink. Admiral Kempenfelt and nearly 800 men perished in this disaster.

A NEW-YORK TORY'S EPISTLE[238]

To one of his Friends in Pennsylvania.—Written previous to his Departure for Nova Scotia

May, 1783

Dark glooms the day that sees me leave this shore,
 To which fate whispers I must come no more:
 From civil broils what dire disasters flow—
 Those broils condemn me to a land of woe
 Where barren pine trees shade the dreary steep,
 Frown o'er the soil or murmur to the deep,
 Where sullen fogs their heavy wings expand,
 And nine months' winter chills the dismal land!
 Could no kind stars have mark'd a different way,
 Stars that presided on my natal day?—
 Why is not man endued with power to know
 The ends and upshots of events below?
 Why did not heaven (some other gift deny'd)
 Teach me to take the true-born Buckskin side,
 Show me the balance of the wavering fates
 And fortune smiling on these new-born States!
 Friend of my heart!—my refuge and relief,
 Who help'd me on through seven long years of grief,
 Whose better genius taught you to remain
 In the soft quiet of your rural reign,
 Who still despised the Rebels and their cause,
 And, while you paid the taxes, damn'd their laws,
 And wisely stood spectator of the fray,
 Nor trusted George, whate'er he chose to say;
 Thrice happy thou, who wore a double face,
 And as the balance turn'd could each embrace;
 Too happy Janus! had I shar'd thy art,
 To speak a language foreign to my heart,
 And stoop'd from pomp and dreams of regal state,
 To court the friendship of the men I hate,
 These strains of woe had not been penn'd to-day,
 Nor I to foreign climes been forc'd away:
 Ah! George—that name provokes my keenest rage,
 Did he not swear, and promise, and engage
 His loyal sons to nurture and defend,
 To be their God, their father and their friend—
 Yet basely quits us on a hostile coast,
 And leaves us wretched where we need him most:
 His is the part to promise and deceive,
 By him we wander and by him we grieve;
 Since the first day that these dissentions grew,
 When Gage to Boston brought his blackguard crew,[239]
 From place to place we urge our vagrant flight
 To follow still this vapour of the night,
 From town to town have run our various race,
 And acted all that's mean and all that's base—
 Yes—from that day until this hour we roam,
 Vagrants forever from our native home!
 And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour
 When happier hands shall crush rebellious power,
 When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own
 And swear subjection to the British throne,
 When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn,
 And banish'd Tories to their fields return.
 From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won
 Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun,
 No rays of joy her evening hour illume,
 'Tis one sad chaos, one unmingled gloom!
 Too soon she sinks unheeded to the grave,
 No eye to pity and no hand to save:
 What are her crimes that she alone must bend?
 Where are her hosts to conquer and defend—
 Must she alone with these new regions part,
 These realms that lay the nearest to her heart,
 But soar'd at once to independent power,
 Not sunk like Scotland in the trying hour?—
 See slothful Spaniards golden empires keep,
 And rule vast realms beyond the Atlantic deep;
 Must we alone surrender half our reign,
 And they their empires and their worlds retain?
 Britannia, rise—send Johnstone to Peru,
 Seize thy bold thunders and the war renew,
 Conquest or ruin—one must be thy doom,
 Strike—and secure a triumph or a tomb!
 But we, sad outcasts from our native reign,
 Driven from these shores, a poor deluded train,
 In distant wilds, conducted by despair,
 Seek, vainly seek, a hiding place from care!
 Even now yon' tribes, the foremost of the band,
 Croud to the ships and cover all the strand:
 Forc'd from their friends, their country, and their God,
 I see the unhappy miscreants leave the sod!
 Matrons and men walk sorrowing side by side
 And virgin grief, and poverty, and pride,
 All, all with aching hearts prepare to sail
 And late repentance that has no avail!
 While yet I stand on this forbidden ground
 I hear the death-bell of destruction sound,
 And threat'ning hosts with vengeance on their brow
 Cry, "Where are Britain's base adherents now?"
 These, hot for vengeance, by resentment led,
 Blame on our hearts the failings of the head;
 To us no peace, no favours they extend,
 Their rage no bounds, their hatred knows no end;
 In one firm league I see them all combin'd,
 We, like the damn'd, can no forgiveness find—
 As soon might Satan from perdition rise,
 And the lost angels gain their vanish'd skies
 As malice cease in their dark souls to burn,
 Or we, once fled, be suffer'd to return.
 Curs'd be the union that was form'd with France,
 I see their lillies and the stars advance!
 Did they not turn our triumphs to retreats,
 And prove our conquests nothing but defeats?—
 My heart misgives me as their chiefs draw near,
 I feel the influence of all potent fear,
 Henceforth must I, abandon'd and distrest,
 Knock at the door of pride, a beggar guest,
 And learn from years of misery and pain
 Not to oppose fair Freedom's cause again!—
 One truth is clear from changes such as these,[240]
 Kings cannot always conquer when they please,
 Nor are they rebels who mere freedom claim,
 Conquest alone can ratify the name—
 But great the task, their efforts to controul
 When genuine virtue fires the stubborn soul;
 The warlike beast in Lybian deserts plac'd
 To reign the master of the sun-burnt waste,
 Not tamely yields to bear a servile chain,
 Force may attempt it, and attempt in vain,
 Nervous and bold, by native valour led,
 His prowess strikes the proud invader dead,
 By force nor fraud from freedom's charms beguil'd
 He reigns secure the monarch of the wild.
Tantalus.