He came--blasphem'd--and turn'd again to land. From this poor vessel, and her sickly crew An English ruffian all his titles drew, Captain, esquire, commander, too, in chief, And hence he gain'd his bread, and hence his beef, But, sir, you might have search'd creation round Ere such another miscreant could be found-- Though unprovok'd, an angry face he bore, We stood astonish'd at the oaths he swore; He swore, till every prisoner stood aghast, And thought him Satan in a brimstone blast; He wish'd us banish'd from the public light, He wish'd us shrouded in perpetual night! That were he king, no mercy would he show, But drive all rebels to the world below; That if we scoundrels did not scrub the decks His staff should break our damn'd rebellious necks; He swore, besides, that if the ship took fire We too should in the pitchy flame expire; And meant it so--this tyrant, I engage, Had lost his breath to gratify his rage.-- If where he walk'd a captive carcase lay, Still dreadful was the language of the day-- He call'd us dogs, and would have us'd us so, But vengeance check'd the meditated blow, The vengeance from our injur'd nation due To him, and all the base, unmanly crew. Such food they sent, to make complete our woes, It look'd like carrion torn from hungry crows, Such vermin vile on every joint were seen, So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean That once we try'd to move our flinty chief, And thus address'd him, holding up the beef: "See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick, "What kills the healthy cannot cure the sick: "Not dogs on such by Christian men are fed, "And see, good master, see, what lousy bread!" "Your meat or bread (this man of flint replied) "Is not my care to manage or provide-- "But this, damn'd rebel dogs, I'd have you know, "That better than you merit we bestow; "Out of my sight!"----nor more he deign'd to say, But whisk'd about, and frowning, strode away. Each day, at least three carcases we bore, And scratch'd them graves along the sandy shore; By feeble hands the shallow graves were made, No stone memorial o'er the corpses laid; In barren sands, and far from home, they lie, No friend to shed a tear, when passing by; O'er the mean tombs insulting Britons tread, Spurn at the sand, and curse the rebel dead. When to your arms these fatal islands fall, (For first or last they must be conquer'd all) Americans! to rites sepulchral just, With gentlest footstep press this kindred dust, And o'er the tombs, if tombs can then be found, Place the green turf, and plant the myrtle round. Americans! a just resentment shew, And glut revenge on this detested foe; While the warm blood exults the glowing vein Still shall resentment in your bosoms reign, Can you forget the greedy Briton's ire, Your fields in ruin, and your domes on fire, No age, no sex from lust and murder free,