Let young and old, both high and low,
Arm well against this savage foe,
Who all around inviron us so,
The sons of black delusion.
New England's sons you know their way,
And how to cross them in their play,
And drive these murdering dogs away,
Unto their last confusion.
One bold effort, oh, let us make,
And at one blow behead the snake,
And then these savage powers will break,
Which long have us oppress'd.
And this, brave soldiers, will we do
If Heaven and George shall say so too;
And if we drive the matter thro',
The land will be at rest.
Come every soldier charge your gun,
And let your task be killing one;
Take aim until the work is done;
Don't throw away your fire,
For he that fires without an aim,
May kill his friend and be to blame,
And in the end come off with shame,
When forced to retire.
O mother land, we think we're sure,
Sufficient is thy marine powers
To dissipate all eastern showers:
And if our arms be blest,
Thy sons in [North America]
Will drive these hell-born dogs away
As far beyond the realms of day,
As east is from the west.
Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,
Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,
It is too high and much too strong,
The learned won't allow.
Much honor should accrue to him
Who ne'er was at their Academ
Come blot out every [telesem];
Get home unto thy plow.
Stephen Tilden.
Composed August 20, 1755.
NED BRADDOCK
[July 9, 1755]
Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,
"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?
Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,
Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"
—"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,
Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;
In his own doom building large for the Lord,
Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.