Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,
From Lily he dismounted.
His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig
While he the specie counted.
All prinkèd up in full bag-wig;
The shaking notwithstanding,
In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!
He reach'd the Yankee landing.
The women ran, the darkeys too;
And all the bells, they tollèd;
For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,
We're sure to be—consolèd.
Old mother Hancock with a pan
All crowded full of butter,
Unto the lovely Georgius ran,
And added to the splutter.
Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,
And John is wondrous happy.
He sent this present to you, dear,
As you're the 'country's papa.'"—
"You'll butter bread and bread butter,
But do not butt your speeches.
You'll butter bread and bread butter,
But do not grease your breeches."
Full many a child went into camp,
All dressed in homespun kersey,
To see the greatest rebel scamp
That ever cross'd o'er Jersey.
The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!
Too awkward was their figure.
'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,
And here and there a nigger.
Upon a stump he placed (himself),
Great Washington did he,
And through the nose of [lawyer Close],
Proclaimed great Liberty.
The patriot brave, the patriot fair,
From fervor had grown thinner,
So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,
And took a patriot dinner.