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 day dark is, And you shall see what you shall see, Ha! ha! my pretty Marquis! “And he shall come to Paules-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 cornstock whiskey for his grog, Blue stockings and brown breeches. And now I’ve closed my epic strain, I tremble as I show it, Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne, Should ever catch the poet. ----- [15] A cant appellation given amongst the soldiery to the corps that had the honor to guard his Majesty’s person. [16] Five refugees (’tis true) were found stiff on the block-house floor, But then, ’tis thought, the shot went round, and in at the back door. * * * * * From a large collection of naval ballads, we select the following, as one of the most curious of its class, and because, like several others in this collection, it has never before been printed. It was written by the surgeon of the “Fair American,” and was familiar to the Massachusetts privateersmen during the last years of the Revolution. The “noble captain,” we believe, was an ancestor of the inimitable author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, of Salem. BOLD HAWTHORNE. The twenty-second of August, before the close of day, All hands on board our privateer, we got her under weigh; We kept the Eastern Shore along, for forty leagues or more, Then our departure took for sea, from the Isle Mauhegan shore. Bold Hawthorne was commander, a man of real worth, Old England’s cruel tyranny induced him to go forth; She, with relentless fury, was plundering all our coast, And thought, because her strength was great, our glorious cause was lost.