Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise, To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies; And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down, Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington! Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply, And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one, While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington! Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears, To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears, And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won, Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington! Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere, While every warlike nation would court alliance here; And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his throne Pay homage to America and glorious Washington! JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWALL. While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol, which had refused to furnish him with supplies,--an incident which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of Revolutionary ballads. THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL [October 7, 1775] In seventeen hundred and seventy-five, Our Bristol town was much surprised By a pack of thievish villains, That will not work to earn their livings. October 'twas the seventh day, As I have heard the people say, Wallace, his name be ever curst, Came on our harbor just at dusk. And there his ship did safely moor, And quickly sent his barge on shore, With orders that should not be broke, Or they might expect a smoke. Demanding that the magistrates Should quickly come on board his ship, And let him have some sheep and cattle, Or they might expect a battle. At eight o'clock, by signal given, Our peaceful atmosphere was riven By British balls, both grape and round, As plenty afterwards were found. But oh! to hear the doleful cries Of people running for their lives! Women, with children in their arms, Running away to the farms! With all their firing and their skill They did not any person kill; Neither was any person hurt But the Reverend Parson Burt. And he was not killed by a ball, As judged by jurors one and all; But being in a sickly state, He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate. Another truth to you I'll tell, That you may see they levelled well; For aiming for to kill the people, They fired their shot into a steeple.