But lest their chieftain, Washington,
Should mourn them in the mumps,
The fate of Withrington to shun,
They fought behind the stumps.
But ah, Thaddeus Posset, why
Should thy poor soul elope?
And why should Titus Hooper die,
Ay, die—without a rope?
Apostate Murphy, thou to whom
Fair Shela ne'er was cruel,
In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,
"Och! would ye die, my jewel?"
Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,
Of melancholy fate;
The gray goose stolen as he went,
In his heart's blood was wet.
Now, as the fight was further fought,
And balls began to thicken,
The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,
The color of a lickin'.
Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,
And to redeem the day,
Cry, Soldiers, charge! they hear, they stand,
They turn and run away.
CANTO III
Not all delights the bloody spear,
Or horrid din of battle;
There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hear
A word about the cattle.
The chief whom we beheld of late,
Near Schralenberg haranging,
At Yan Van Poop's unconscious sat
Of Irving's hearty banging.
Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,
Most bravely did oppose
The tears of woman and of child,
Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.
But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,
Required a relief,
Not all the blessings could impart
Of battle or of beef.