"I'm done! A cannon ball of thirty pound Has hit me where Sir Peter got his wound. I'm done! I'm all undone! So don't unbutt'n'm; But say adieu for me to Clairette Putnam!"[35] (_Enter_ a swarm of surgeons) _Surgeons_ "Compose yourself, good sir--forget your fright; We promise you you are not slain outright. The wound you got is not so mortal deep But bleeding, cupping, patience, rest, and sleep, With blisters, clysters, physic, air and diet Will set you up again if you'll be quiet!" _Sir John_ "So thick, so fast the balls and bullets flew, Some hit me here, some there, some thro' and thro', Beneath my legs a score of hosses fell, Shot under me by twice as many shell; And though my soldiers falter and beseech, Forward I strode, defiant to the breech, And there, as History my valour teaches, I fell as Cæsar fell, and lost--my breeches! His face lay in his toga, in defeat, So let me hide my face within my seat, My requiem the rebel cannons roar, My duty done, my bottom very sore. Tell Willett he may keep his flour and pork, For I am going back to dear New York." (Exit on a litter to the Rogue's March) [Footnote 32: 32 parallel to _The Expedition to Danbury_, printed in a Pennsylvania newspaper, May 14th, 1777.] [Footnote 33: Carkers--carcass--a shell fired from a small piece of artillery.] [Footnote 34: Sir Peter Parker's breeches were carried away by a round shot at Fort Moultrie.] [Footnote 35: His charming but abandoned mistress.] "If we fight at Stanwix," says Penelope, "God send the business end as gaily as your broadside, Nick!" And so, amid laughter, our last evening together came to an end, and it was time to part. Nick gave Penelope a hearty smack, grinned broadly at me, seized my hands and whispered: "What did I tell you of the Scotch girl of Caughnawaga, who hath a way with her which is the undoing of all innocent young men?" "Idiot!" said I fiercely, "I am not undone in such a manner!" Like two bear-cubs we clutched and wrestled; then he hugged me, laughed, and broke away. "Farewell, comrades," he cried, snatching sack and musket from the corner. "If I can not fife the red-coats into hell to the Rogue's March, or my brother John drum them there to the Devil's tattoo, then my daddy shall persuade 'em thither with musket-music! Three stout Stoners and three lanky Livingstons, and all in the same regiment! Hurrah!" And off and down the tavern stairs he ran, clattering and clanking, and shouting out a fond good-bye to Burke, who had forgiven him the goat. Standing in the candle-light by the window, where a million rainwashed stars twinkled in the depthless ocean of the night, I rested my brow against the cool, glazed pane, lost in most bitter reflexion.