I'll tell you, George, in metre, If you'll attend awhile; We've forced your bold Sir Peter From Sullivan's fair isle. At Monmouth, too, we gainèd The honors of the day-- The victory we obtainèd For North America. Surely we were your betters Hard by the Brandywine; We laid him fast in fetters Whose name was John Burgoyne; We made your Howe to tremble With terror and dismay; True heroes we resemble, In North America. Confusion to the tories, That black infernal name In which Great Britain glories, Forever to her shame; We'll send each foul revolter To smutty Africa, Or noose him in a halter In North America. A health to our brave footmen, Who handle sword and gun, To Greene, and Gates, and Putnam, And conquering Washington; Their names be wrote in letters Which never will decay, While sun and moon do glitter On North America. Success unto our allies In Holland, France, and Spain, Who man their ships and galleys, Our freedom to maintain; May they subdue the rangers Of proud Britannia, And drive them from their anchors In North America. Success unto the Congress Of these United States, Who glory in the conquests Of Washington and Gates; To all, both land and seamen, Who glory in the day When we shall all be freemen In North America. Success to legislation, That rules with gentle hand, To trade and navigation By water and by land. May all with one opinion Our wholesome laws obey, Throughout this vast dominion Of North America. [Illustration] THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS. BY FRANCIS HOPKINSON. (From "The Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings," 1792.) [This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. Certain machines in the form of kegs, charged with gunpowder, were sent down the river to annoy the British shipping then at Philadelphia. The danger of these machines being discovered, the British manned the wharfs and shipping, and discharged their small-arms and cannons at every thing they saw floating in the river during the ebb tide.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.] Gallants attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty, Strange things I'll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city. 'T was early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising. As in amaze he stood to gaze, The truth can't be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir. A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damned his eyes, in great surprise, Then said: "Some mischief's brewing. "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, Packed up like pickled herring; And they're come down to attack the town, In this new way of ferrying."