CHAPTER VI
"THE FATE OF SIR JACK BRAG"
Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13, detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington, where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared to give it a warm reception.
THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON
Why come ye hither, stranger?
Your mind what madness fills?
In our valleys there is danger,
And danger on our hills!
Hear ye not the singing
Of the bugle, wild and free?
Full soon ye'll know the ringing
Of the rifle from the tree!
The rifle, the sharp rifle!
In our hands it is no trifle!
Ye ride a goodly steed;
He may know another master:
Ye forward come with speed,
But ye'll learn to back much faster,
When ye meet our mountain boys
And their leader, Johnny Stark!
Lads who make but little noise,
But who always hit the mark
With the rifle, the true rifle!
In their hands will prove no trifle!
Had ye no graves at home
Across the briny water,
That hither ye must come,
Like bullocks to the slaughter?
If we the work must do,
Why, the sooner 'tis begun,
If flint and trigger hold but true,
The quicker 'twill be done
By the rifle, the good rifle!
In our hands it is no trifle!
Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner, and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set out to meet the enemy.
THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN
[August 15, 1777]
March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark,
And let no man straggle on the way!
March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark,
For the old man needs us all to-day.
Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball,
With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay!
But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all,
Let no man let the buckshot go astray.
Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line,
When we meet those bloody Hessians in array!
They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine,
Unless the cowards turn and run away.
Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won,
To the home where the women watch and pray!
To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun,
And to hear them thank our God for the day.
Edward Everett Hale.
Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen.
PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE
[August 15, 1777]
The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night.
The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here,
Assembled and grouped in the lingering light,
To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.
Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green,
Through the driving rain of that August day,
The "Flock" marched on with martial mien,
And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay."
"Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said,
As the boys of New England drew up face to face,
"Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread,
And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'"
"The lads who are with me have come here to fight,
And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply,
"Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right,
Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti."
"To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do,
If you think you can wait for the morning light,
And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you,
Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."
What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp,
Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess;
A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp,
With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.
But we know the result of that glorious day,
And the victory won ere the night came down;
How Warner charged in the bitter fray,
With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:
And how in the lull of the three hours' fight,
The Parson harangued the Tory line,
As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright,
And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:—
The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry,
A refuge sure in the hour of need,
And freedom and faith can never die,
Is article first of the Puritan creed.
"Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash,"
He remarked to his comrades after the rout,
"For behind a bush I saw a flash,
But I fired that way and put it out."
And many the sayings, eccentric and queer,
Repeated and sung through the whole country side,
And quoted in Berkshire for many a year,
Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.
All honor to Stark and his resolute men,
To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise,
While with shout and with cheer we welcome again,
The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.
Wallace Bruce.
The next day, August 16, 1777, dawned clear and bright, and the morning was consumed in preparations for the attack. Stark managed to throw half his force on Baum's rear and flanks, and, early in the afternoon, assaulted the enemy on all sides. The Germans stood their ground and fought desperately, but they were soon thrown into disorder, and at the end of two hours were all either killed or captured.
THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON
[August 16, 1777]
Up through a cloudy sky, the sun
Was buffeting his way,
On such a morn as ushers in
A sultry August day.
Hot was the air—and hotter yet
Men's thoughts within them grew:
They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw—
They saw their homesteads too.
They thought of all their country's wrongs,
They thought of noble lives
Pour'd out in battle with her foes,
They thought upon their wives,
Their children, and their aged sires,
Their firesides, churches, God—
And these deep thoughts made hallow'd ground
Each foot of soil they trod.
Their leader was a brave old man,
A man of earnest will;
His very presence was a host—
He'd fought at Bunker Hill.
A living monument he stood
Of stirring deeds of fame,
Of deeds that shed a fadeless light
On his own deathless name.
Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood,
His presence told the tale,
It made each hero's heart beat high
Though lip and cheek grew pale;
It spoke of Princeton, Morristown,
Told Trenton's thrilling story—
It lit futurity with hope,
And on the past shed glory.
Who were those men—their leader who?
Where stood they on that morn?
The men were Berkshire yeomanry,
Brave men as e'er were born,—
Who in the reaper's merry row
Or warrior rank could stand
Right worthy such a noble troop,
John Stark led on the band.
Wollamsac wanders by the spot
Where they that morning stood;
Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream,
The waves were tinged with blood;
And the near hills that dark cloud girt,
And fires like lightning flash'd,
And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts,
Rose as the bayonets clash'd.
The night before, the Yankee host
Came gathering from afar,
And in each belted bosom glow'd
The spirit of the war.
As full of fight, through rainy storm,
Night, cloudy, starless, dark,
They came, and gathered as they came,
Around the valiant Stark.
There was a Berkshire parson—he
And all his flock were there,
And like true churchmen militant
The arm of flesh made bare.
Out spake the Dominie and said,
"For battle have we come
These many times, and after this
We mean to stay at home."
"If now we come in vain," said Stark,
"What! will you go to-night
To battle it with yonder troops,
God send us morning light,
And we will give you work enough:
Let but the morning come,
And if ye hear no voice of war
Go back and stay at home."
The morning came—there stood the foe,
Stark eyed them as they stood—
Few words he spake—'twas not a time
For moralizing mood.
"See there the enemy, my boys!
Now strong in valor's might,
Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleep
In widowhood to-night."
Each soldier there had left at home
A sweetheart, wife, or mother,
A blooming sister, or, perchance,
A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother.
Each from a fireside came, and thoughts
Those simple words awoke
That nerved up every warrior's arm
And guided every stroke.
Fireside and woman—mighty words!
How wondrous is the spell
They work upon the manly heart,
Who knoweth not full well?
And then the women of this land,
That never land hath known
A truer, prouder hearted race,
Each Yankee boy must own.
Brief eloquence was Stark's—nor vain—
Scarce utter'd he the words,
When burst the musket's rattling peal
Out-leap'd the flashing swords;
And when brave Stark in after time
Told the proud tale of wonder,
He said the battle din was one
"Continual clap of thunder."
Two hours they strove—then victory crown'd
The gallant Yankee boys.
Nought but the memory of the dead
Bedimm'd their glorious joys;
Ay—there's the rub—the hour of strife,
Though follow years of fame,
Is still in mournful memory link'd
With some death-hallow'd name.
The cypress with the laurel twines—
The pæan sounds a knell,
The trophied column marks the spot
Where friends and brothers fell.
Fame's mantle a funereal pall
Seems to the grief-dimm'd eye,
For ever where the bravest fall
The best beloved die.
Thomas P. Rodman.
Just at this moment, when the Americans, thinking the battle over, began to scatter to the plunder of the German camp, a relieving force of five hundred men, sent by Burgoyne, came upon the scene. Luckily, Seth Warner also arrived with fresh men at this juncture, charged furiously upon the British, and by nightfall had killed or captured the entire column, with the exception of six men, who succeeded in reaching the British camp.
BENNINGTON
[August 16, 1777]
A cycle was closed and rounded,
A continent lost and won,
When Stark and his men went over
The earthworks at Bennington.
Slowly down from the northward,
Billowing fold on fold,
Whelming the land and crushing,
The glimmering glacier rolled.
Down from the broad St. Lawrence,
Bright with its thousand isles,
Through the Canadian woodlands,
Sweet with the summer smiles,
On over field and fastness,
Village and vantage coigne,
Rolled the resistless legions
Led by the bold Burgoyne.
Roared the craggy ledges
Looming o'er Lake Champlain;
Red with the blaze of navies
Quivered the land-locked main;
Soared the Vancour eagle,
Screaming, across the sun;
Deep dived the loon in terror
Under Lake Horicon.
Panther and hart together
Fled to the wilds afar,
From the flash and the crash of the cannon
And the rush of the southward war.
But at last by the lordly river
The trampling giant swayed,
And his massive arm swung eastward
Like a blindly-plunging blade.
New England felt her bosom
Menaced with deadly blow,
And her minute-men sprang up again
And flew to bar the foe.
But Stark in his Hampshire valley
Watched like a glowering bear,
That hears the cry go sweeping by
Yet stirs not from his lair;
For on his daring spirit
A wrath lay like a spell,—
The wrath of one rewarded ill
For a great work wrought right well.
Neighbor and friend and brother
Flocked to his side in vain,—
"What, can it be that they long for me
To ruin their cause again?
"Surely the northern lights are bright.
Surely the South lies still.
Would they have more?—Lo, I left my sword
On the crest of Bunker Hill."
But at last from his own New Hampshire
An urgent summons came,
That stirred his heart like the voice of God
From Sinai's walls of flame.
He bowed his head, and he rose aloft;
Again he grasped the brand,—
"For the cause of man and my native State,
Not for an ingrate land!"
Through the mist-veil faintly struggling,
The rays of the setting sun
Reddened the leafy village
Of white-walled Bennington.
Then out of the dismal weather
Came many a sound of war,—
The straggling shots and the volleys
And the cries, now near now far.
For forms half seen were chasing
The phantom forms that fled;
And ghostly figures grappled
And spectres fought and bled;
Till the mist on a sudden settled
And they saw before them fair,
Over a hill to the westward,
An island in the air.
There were tree-trunks and waving branches,
And greensward and flowers below;
It rose in a dome of verdure
From the mist-waves' watery flow.
A flag from its summit floated
And a circling earthwork grew,
As the arms of the swarming soldiers
At their toil unwonted flew.
"Aha!" cried the Yankee leader,
"So the panther has turned at bay
With his claws of steel and his breath of fire
Behind that wall of clay!
"Our steel is in muscle and sinew.
But I know,"—and his voice rang free,—
"Right well I know we shall strike a blow
That the world will leap to see."
I stood by a blazing city
Till the fires had died away,
Save a flickering gleam in the ruins
And a fitful gleam on the bay.
But a swarthy cove by the water
Blue-bristled from point to base,
With the breath of demons, bursting
Through the crust of their prison-place;
And another beside it flaunted
A thousand rags of red,
Like the Plague King's dancing banners
On a mound of the swollen dead.
Twin brothers of flame and evil,
In their quivering living light,
They ruled with a frightful beauty
The desolate waste of night.
Thus did the battle mountain
Blazon with flashes dire;
The leaguered crest responded
In a coronal of fire.
The tough old fowling-pieces
In huddling tumult rang.
Louder the muskets' roaring!
Shriller the rifles' clang!
Hour after hour the turmoil
Gathered and swelled apace,
Till the hill seemed a volcano
Bursting in every place.
Then the lights grew faint and meagre,
Though the hideous noise rolled on;
And out of a bath of glory
Uprose the noble sun.
It brightened the tossing banner;
It yellowed the leafy crest;
It smote on the serried weapons,
On helmet and scarlet breast.
It drove on the mist below them
Where Stark and his foremost stood,
Flashing volley for volley
Into the stubborn wood.
A thousand stalwart figures
Sprang from the gulf profound,
A thousand guns uplifted
Went whirling round and round.
Like some barbarian onslaught
On a lofty Roman hold;
Like the upward rush of Titans
On Olympian gods of old;
With a swirl of the wrangling torrents
As they dash on a castle wall;
With the flame-seas skyward surging
At the mountain demon's call,
Heedless of friend and brother
Stricken to earth below,
The sons of New England bounded
On the breastwork of the foe.
Each stalwart form on the ramparts
Swaying his battered gun
Seemed a vengeful giant, looming
Against the rising sun.
The pond'rous clubs swept crashing
Through the bayonets round their feet
As a woodman's axe-edge crashes
Through branches mailed in sleet,
Shattering head and shoulder,
Splintering arm and thigh,
Hurling the redcoats earthward
Like bolts from an angry sky.
Faster each minute and faster
The yeomen swarm over the wall,
And narrower grows the circle
And thicker the Britons fall;
Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmen
Swift to the rescue flies,
The frown of the Northland on their brows
And the war-light in their eyes.
Back reeled the men of Berkshire,
The mountaineers gave back,
But Stark and his Hampshire yeomen
Flung full across their track.
The stern Teutonic mother
Well might she grandly eye
The prowess dread of her war-swarms red
As they racked the earth and sky.
Like rival wrestling athletes
Grappled the East and West.
With straining thews and staring eyes
They swayed and strove for the royal prize,
A continent's virgin breast.
Till at last as a strong man's wrenching
Shatters a brittle vase,
The lustier arms of the Westland
Shattered the elder race.
Baum and his bravest cohorts
Lay on the trampled sod,
And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high,
"Yield in the name of God!"
Then the sullen Hessians yielded,
Girt by an iron ring,
And down from the summit fluttered
The flag of the British king.
Vainly the tardy Breyman
May strive that height to gain;
More work for the Hampshire war-clubs!
More room for the Hessian slain!
The giant's arm is severed,
The giant's blood flows free,
And he staggers in the pathway
That leads to the distant sea.
The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomen
With the men of the Hudson join,
And the gathering flood rolls over
The host of the bold Burgoyne.
For a cycle was closed and rounded,
A continent lost and won,
When Stark and his men went over
The earthworks at Bennington.
W. H. Babcock.
Saint Leger, meanwhile, had landed at Oswego and advanced against Fort Stanwix. General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of the militia of Tryon County, at the head of eight hundred men, started to the rescue. He met the enemy, on August 5, at Oriskany, and there followed the most obstinate and murderous battle of the Revolution. Both sides claimed the victory.
THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY
[August 6, 1777]
As men who fight for home and child and wife,
As men oblivious of life
In holy martyrdom,
The yeomen of the valley fought that day,
Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,—
Blood-red Oriskany.
From rock and tree and clump of twisted brush
The hissing gusts of battle rush,—
Hot-breathed and horrible!
The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas,
Sweep through thy splintered trees,—
Hard-fought Oriskany.
Heroes are born in such a chosen hour;
From common men they rise, and tower,
Like thee, brave Herkimer!
Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beech
Cheered on thy men, with sword and speech,
In grim Oriskany.
But ere the sun went toward the tardy night,
The valley then beheld the light
Of freedom's victory;
And wooded Tryon snatched from British arms
The empire of a million farms—
On bright Oriskany.
The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies;
The rescued wilderness replies;
Forth dash the garrison!
And routed Tories, with their savage aids,
Sink reddening through the sullied shades—
From lost Oriskany.
Charles D. Helmer.
Saint Leger rallied his shaken columns and settled down to besiege the fort, which laughed at his summons to surrender. Soon afterwards, news of Oriskany and of the siege arrived at General Schuyler's headquarters at Stillwater, and Benedict Arnold set out at once for Fort Stanwix at the head of twelve hundred men. Such exaggerated reports of the size of his force were conveyed to Saint Leger that, on August 22, he raised the siege and retreated to Canada.
SAINT LEGER
[August, 1777]
From out of the North-land his leaguer he led,
Saint Leger, Saint Leger;
And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped;
Their courage, he cried, it shall die i' the throat
When they mark the proud standards that over us float—
See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat!
Saint Leger, Saint Leger.
He hurried by water, he scurried by land,
Saint Leger, Saint Leger,
Till closely he cordoned the patriot band:
Surrender, he bade, or I tighten the net!
Surrender? they mocked him, we laugh at your threat!
By Heaven! he thundered, you'll live to regret
Saint Leger, Saint Leger!
He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell,
Saint Leger, Saint Leger;
Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell;
But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate,
As he sat in his tent-door, Egad, we can wait,
For famine is famous to open a gate!
Saint Leger, Saint Leger.
But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear—
Saint Leger, Saint Leger—
A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear!
They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled!
They come, and their onset may not be controlled,
For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold—
Saint Leger, Saint Leger!
Retreat! Was the word e'er more bitterly said,
Saint Leger, Saint Leger,
Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led?
Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain—
Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train!
And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vain
Saint Leger!
Clinton Scollard.
Saint Leger's retreat, joined to the disaster at Bennington, left Burgoyne in an exceedingly critical condition. The Americans hemmed him in, front and rear, and increased rapidly in numbers; he had received no news from Howe, who was supposed to be on his way up the Hudson to join him; and he found it more and more difficult to get provisions.
THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG
Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
These rebels their course very quickly will rue,
And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew,
When him who is your leader they know, boys!
They with men have now to deal,
And we soon will make them feel—
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel,
Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys!
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!
As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,
He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flame
For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!
No lack of skill, but fates,
Shall make us yield to Gates,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States.
But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,
Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!
The American army was stationed along the western bank of the Hudson; while Burgoyne's troops were encamped along the eastern bank. For nearly a month the armies remained in this position; then Burgoyne determined to advance to Albany, and on September 13, 1777, the British army crossed on a pontoon bridge to the west bank of the Hudson. Two desperate attempts were made to break through the American lines, but the British were routed by Benedict Arnold's superb and daring generalship, and forced to retreat to Saratoga.
ARNOLD AT STILLWATER
[October 7, 1777]
Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel!
Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;
Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared
Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.
Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;
Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!
Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;
Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died.
Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,
Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;
Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,
Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.
Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!
Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.
The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,
And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.
Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;
There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;
Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;
As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred.
Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;
Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;
"What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?"
"General Gates sent his orders"—faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—
"You're to return, lest some rashness—" Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:
"Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!
Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"
Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!—
Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell—
Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!
Thomas Dunn English.
Burgoyne was hotly pursued, and when he reached the place where he had crossed the Hudson, found it occupied in force by the Americans. The British army, in short, was surrounded, and, after a week's indecision, Burgoyne sent a flag of truce to Gates, inquiring what terms of surrender would be accepted. Three days were spent in a discussion of terms, and on October 17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered to the American forces.
THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE
[October 17, 1777]
When Jack the King's commander
Was going to his duty,
Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed
To every blooming beauty.
The city rung with feats he'd done
In Portugal and Flanders,
And all the town thought he'd be crowned
The first of Alexanders.
To Hampton Court he first repairs
To kiss great George's hand, sirs;
Then to harangue on state affairs
Before he left the land, sirs.
The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse
To hear his grand oration;
And "all the peers," with loudest cheers,
Proclaimed him to the nation.
Then off he went to Canada,
Next to Ticonderoga,
And quitting those away he goes
Straightway to Saratoga.
With great parade his march he made
To gain his wished-for station,
While far and wide his minions hied
To spread his "Proclamation."
To such as stayed he offers made
Of "pardon on submission;
But savage bands should waste the lands
Of all in opposition."
But ah, the cruel fates of war!
This boasted son of Britain,
When mounting his triumphal car,
With sudden fear was smitten.
The sons of Freedom gathered round,
His hostile bands confounded,
And when they'd fain have turned their back
They found themselves surrounded!
In vain they fought, in vain they fled;
Their chief, humane and tender,
To save the rest soon thought it best
His forces to surrender.
Brave St. Clair, when he first retired,
Knew what the fates portended;
And Arnold and heroic Gates
His conduct have defended.
Thus may America's brave sons
With honor be rewarded,
And be the fate of all her foes
The same as here recorded.
SARATOGA SONG
[October 17, 1777]
Come unto me, ye heroes
Whose hearts are true and bold,
Who value more your honor
Than others do their gold;
Give ear unto my story,
And I the truth will tell,
Concerning many a soldier
Who for his country fell.
Burgoyne, the King's commander,
From Canada set sail;
With full eight thousand regulars,
He thought he could not fail;
With Indians and Canadians,
And his cursèd Tory crew,
On board his fleet of shipping
He up the Champlain flew.
Before Ticonderoga,
The first day of July,
Appeared his ships and army,
And we did them espy.
Their motions we observed,
Full well both night and day,
And our brave boys prepared
To have a bloody fray.
Our garrison, they viewed them,
And straight their troops did land;
And when St. Clair, our chieftain,
The fact did understand,
That they the Mount Defiance
Were bent to fortify,
He found we must surrender,
Or else prepare to die.
The fifth day of July, then,
He ordered a retreat;
And when next morn we started,
Burgoyne thought we were beat.
And closely he pursued us,
Till when near Hubbardton,
Our rear guards were defeated,
He thought the country won.
And when 'twas told in Congress
That we our forts had left,
To Albany retreated,
Of all the North bereft,
Brave General Gates they sent us,
Our fortunes to retrieve,
And him, with shouts of gladness,
The army did receive.
Where first the Mohawk's waters
Do in the sunshine play,
For Herkimer's brave soldiers
Sellinger ambushed lay;
And them he there defeated,
But soon he had his due,
And scared by Brooks and Arnold,
He to the north withdrew.
To take the stores and cattle
That we had gathered then,
Burgoyne sent a detachment
Of fifteen hundred men;
By Baum they were commanded,
To Bennington they went;
To plunder and to murder
Was fully their intent.
But little did they know then
With whom they had to deal;
It was not quite so easy
Our stores and stocks to steal,
Bold Stark would give them only
A portion of his lead;
With half his crew, ere sunset,
Baum lay among the dead.
The nineteenth of September,
The morning cool and clear,
Brave Gates rode through our army,
Each soldier's heart to cheer;
"Burgoyne," he cried, "advances,
But we will never fly;
No—rather than surrender,
We'll fight him till we die!"
The news was quickly brought us,
The enemy was near,
And all along our lines then,
There was no sign of fear;
It was above Stillwater
We met at noon that day,
And every one expected
To see a bloody fray.
Six hours the battle lasted,
Each heart as true as gold,
The British fought like lions,
And we like Yankees bold;
The leaves with blood were crimson,
And then did brave Gates cry,
"'Tis diamond now cut diamond!
We'll beat them, boys, or die."
The darkness soon approaching,
It forced us to retreat
Into our lines till morning,
Which made them think us beat;
But ere the sun was risen,
They saw before their eyes
Us ready to engage them,
Which did them much surprise.
Of fighting they seem weary,
Therefore to work they go
Their thousand dead to bury,
And breastworks up to throw;
With grape and bombs intending
Our army to destroy,
Or from our works our forces
By stratagem decoy.
The seventh day of October
The British tried again,
Shells from their cannon throwing,
Which fell on us like rain;
To drive us from our stations,
That they might thus retreat;
For now Burgoyne saw plainly
He never could us beat.
But vain was his endeavor
Our men to terrify;
Though death was all around us,
Not one of us would fly.
But when an hour we'd fought them,
And they began to yield,
Along our lines the cry ran,
"The next blow wins the field!"
Great God who guides their battles
Whose cause is just and true,
Inspired our bold commander
The course he should pursue!
He ordered Arnold forward,
And Brooks to follow on;
The enemy was routed!
Our liberty was won!
Then, burning all their luggage,
They fled with haste and fear,
Burgoyne with all his forces,
To Saratoga did steer;
And Gates, our brave commander,
Soon after him did hie,
Resolving he would take them,
Or in the effort die.
As we came nigh the village,
We overtook the foe;
They'd burned each house to ashes,
Like all where'er they go.
The seventeenth of October,
They did capitulate,
Burgoyne and his proud army
Did we our prisoners make.
Now here's a health to Arnold,
And our commander Gates,
To Lincoln and to Washington,
Whom every Tory hates;
Likewise unto our Congress,
God grant it long to reign;
Our Country, Right, and Justice
Forever to maintain.
Now finished is my story,
My song is at an end;
The freedom we're enjoying
We're ready to defend;
For while our cause is righteous,
Heaven nerves the soldier's arm,
And vain is their endeavor
Who strive to do us harm.