Return my muse unto the field, See what a prospect it doth yield; Ingrateful to the eyes and smell A carnage bath'd in gore, Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills, While sanguine rivers fill the dales, And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields, The like ne'er here before. And must these sons of Brittany Be clouded, set in western skies, And fall a savage sacrifice? Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour! My blood boils high in every vein, To climb the mountains of the slain, And break the iron jaws in twain, Of savage Gallic power. Our children with their mothers die, While they aloud for mercy cry; They kill, and scalp them instantly, Then fly into the woods, And make a mock of all their cries, And bring their scalps a sacrifice To their infernal deities, And praise their demon gods. Revenge, revenge the harmless blood Which their inhuman dogs have shed In every frontier neighborhood, For near these hundred years. Their murdering clan in ambush lies, To kill and scalp them by surprize, And free from tender parents' eyes Ten hundred thousand tears. Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks Have so enraged old sixty-six, With legs and arms like withered sticks, And youthful vigor gone; That if he lives another year, Complete in armor he'll appear, And laugh at death and scoff at fear, To right his country's wrong. Let young and old, both high and low, Arm well against this savage foe, Who all around inviron us so, The sons of black delusion. New England's sons you know their way, And how to cross them in their play, And drive these murdering dogs away, Unto their last confusion. One bold effort, oh, let us make, And at one blow behead the snake, And then these savage powers will break, Which long have us oppress'd. And this, brave soldiers, will we do If Heaven and George shall say so too; And if we drive the matter thro', The land will be at rest. Come every soldier charge your gun, And let your task be killing one; Take aim until the work is done; Don't throw away your fire, For he that fires without an aim, May kill his friend and be to blame, And in the end come off with shame, When forced to retire. O mother land, we think we're sure, Sufficient is thy marine powers To dissipate all eastern showers: And if our arms be blest, Thy sons in _North America_ Will drive these hell-born dogs away As far beyond the realms of day, As east is from the west. Forbear my muse thy barbarous song, Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long, It is too high and much too strong, The learned won't allow. Much honor should accrue to him Who ne'er was at their Academ Come blot out every telesem; Get home unto thy plow. STEPHEN TILDEN. Composed August 20, 1755. NED BRADDOCK [July 9, 1755]