But soon we had an order come, An order to defeat them; Like rebels stout, they stood it out, And thought we ne'er could beat them. About the hour of twelve that day, An order came for marching, With three good flints and sixty rounds, Each man hoped to discharge them. We marchèd down to the Long Wharf, Where boats were ready waiting; With expedition we embark'd, Our ships kept cannonading. And when our boats all fillèd were With officers and soldiers, With as good troops as England had, To oppose who dare controul us? And when our boats all fillèd were, We row'd in line of battle, Where showers of ball like hail did fly, Our cannon loud did rattle. There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown, Our twenty-fours they played; And the three frigates in the stream, That very well behaved. The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore, All at the time of landing, With her grape-shot and cannon-balls, No Yankee e'er could stand them. And when we landed on the shore, We draw'd up all together; The Yankees they all mann'd their works, And thought we'd ne'er come thither. But soon they did perceive brave Howe, Brave Howe, our bold commander; With grenadiers, and infantry, We made them to surrender. Brave William Howe, on our right wing, Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder; You soon will see the rebels flee, With great amaze and wonder." Now some lay bleeding on the ground, And some fell fast a-running O'er hills and dales, and mountains high, Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming." They 'gan to play on our left wing, Where Pigot, he commanded; But we returned it back again, With courage most undaunted. To our grape-shot and musket-balls, To which they were but strangers, They thought to come with sword in hand, But soon they found their danger. And when their works we got into, And put them to the flight, sirs, Some of them did hide themselves, And others died of fright, sirs. And when their works we got into, Without great fear or danger, The works they'd made were firm and strong, The Yankees are great strangers. But as for our artillery, They all behavèd dinty; For while our ammunition held, We gave it to them plenty. But our conductor, he got broke For his misconduct sure, sir; The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns, Were made for twenty-fours, sir. There's some in Boston pleased to say, As we the field were taking, We went to kill their countrymen, While they their hay were making. For such stout whigs I never saw, To hang them all I'd rather; For making hay with musket-balls, And buckshot mixt together. Brave Howe is so considerate, As to guard against all dangers: He allows us half a pint a day-- To rum we are no strangers.