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 signalized, That fought at Chesnut Hill, And Canada immortalized The vender of the pill. Yet the 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, though slender ranks, Nor cared a pin for Wayne. For them the unrelenting hand Of rebel fury drove, And tore from every genial band, Of friendship and of love. And some within a 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 appeared In deep distress serene, Of reverent manners that declared, The better days they’d seen. Oh, curs’d rebellion, these are thine, Thine are these tales of wo, Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine Blood never cease to flow? And now the foe began to lead His forces to the attack; Balls whistling unto balls succeed, And make the Block-House crack. No shot could pass, if you will take The General’s word for true; But ’tis a d——ble mistake, For every shot went through. The firmer as the rebels press’d, The loyal heroes stand; Virtue had nerved each honest breast, And industry each hand. “In[13] valor’s phrenzy, Hamilton, Rode like a soldier big, And secretary Harrison, With pen stuck in his wig.” “But least their chieftain, Washington, Should mourn them in the mumps,[14] The fate of Withrington to shun, They fought behind the stumps.” But ah, Thadæus Posset, why Should thy poor soul elope? And why should Titus Hooper die, Aye, die—without a rope? Apostate Murphy, thou to whom Fair Shela ne’er was cruel, _In death shall hear her_ mourn thy doom, “Och! would you die, my jewel?” Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament, Of melancholy fate, The grey 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 generals 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. ----- [13] Vide Lee’s Trial. [14] A disorder prevalent in the rebel lines. PART III.