"Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,
Dead hogs I'm sure can't bite you;
Along each keel is Indian meal;
There's nothing here need fright you."
Out of the barn, still in alarm,
Came fifty men or more, sirs,
And seized each boat and other float
And tied them to the shore, sirs.
This plunder rare, they sport and share,
And each a portion grapples.
['Twas half a kneel of Indian meal],
And ten of Putnam's apples.
The boats they drop to Allen's shop,
Commanded by O'Flannon,
Where, lashed ashore, without an oar,
They lay beneath the cannon.
This band so bold, the night being cold,
And blacksmith's shop being handy,
Around the forge they drink and gorge
On whiskey and peach-brandy.
Two honest tars, who had some scars,
Beheld their trepidation;
Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack;
'Twill fright them like damnation.
"[Tyler, they say, lies at Belpré],
Snug in old Blanny's quarters;
Yet this pale host tremble like ghosts
For fear he'll walk on waters."
No more was said, but off they sped
To fix what they'd begun on;
At one o'clock, firm as a rock,
They fired the spun-yarn cannon.
Trembling and wan stood every man;
Then bounced and shouted murder,
While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horse
To get the folks to order.
Ten men went out and looked about—
A hardy set of fellows;
Some hid in holes behind the coals,
And some behind the bellows.