'Tis an honour to serve the bravest of nations,
And be left to be hang'd in their capitulations—
Then scour up your mortars
And stand to your quarters,
'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em,
Forget your disgraces
And shorten your faces,
For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.
[5] According to Frank Moore's Songs and Ballads of the Revolution, this poem was first issued as a ballad-sheet in 1779. It was reprinted in the Freeman's Journal, April 17, 1782, and was published in the author's three editions. The text follows the edition of 1795.
Sir Henry Clinton was left in command of New York City, July 5, 1777, when Howe started on his expedition for the capture of Philadelphia. Freneau's poem indicates his treatment of the Tory refugees.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIS BRITANNIC
MAJESTY AND MR. FOX[6]
Supposed to have passed about the time of the approach of the combined fleets of France and Spain to the British coasts, August, 1779.
King G.
Good master Fox,[7] your counsel I implore,
Still George the third, but potent George no more.
By North conducted to the brink of fate,
I mourn my folly and my pride too late:
The promises he made, when once we met
In Kew's gay shades,[A] I never shall forget,
That at my feet the western world should fall,
And bow to me the potent lord of all—
Curse on his hopes, his councils and his schemes,
His plans of conquest, and his golden dreams,
These have allur'd me to the jaws of hell,
By Satan tempted thus Iscariot fell:
Divested of majestic pomp I come,
My royal robes and airs I've left at home,
Speak freely, friend, whate'er you choose to say,
Suppose me equal with yourself to-day:
How shall I shun the mischiefs that impend?
How shall I make Columbia[B] yet my friend?
I dread the power of each revolted State,
The convex East hangs balanc'd with their weight.
How shall I dare the rage of France and Spain,
And lost dominion o'er the waves regain?
Advise me quick, for doubtful while we stand,
Destruction gathers o'er this wretched land:
These hostile squadrons to my ruin led,
These Gallic thunders fill my soul with dread,
If these should conquer—Britain, thou must fall
And bend, a province, to the haughty Gaul:
If this must be—thou earth, expanding wide,
Unlucky George in thy dark entrails hide—
Ye oceans, wrap me in your dark embrace—
Ye mountains, shroud me to your lowest base—
Fall on my head, ye everlasting rocks—
But why so pensive, my good master Fox?[8]
[A] The royal gardens at Kew.—Freneau's note.