Chapter 13

defeat and flight of the Regulars._

ROGER. Whilst early looking, Dick, ere the sun was seen to tinge the brow of the mountain, for my flock of sheep, nor dreaming of approaching evil, suddenly mine eyes beheld from yon hill a cloud of dust arise at a small distance; the intermediate space were thick set with laurels, willows, evergreens, and bushes of various kinds, the growth of wild nature, and which hid the danger from my eyes, thinking perchance my flock had thither stray'd; I descended, and straight onward went; but, Dick, judge you my thoughts at such a disappointment: Instead of my innocent flock of sheep, I found myself almost encircled by a herd of ravenous British wolves.

DICK. Dangerous must have been your situation, Roger, whatever were your thoughts.

ROGER. I soon discovered my mistake; finding a hostile appearance, I instantly turn'd myself about, and fled to alarm the shepherds.

DICK. Did they pursue you?

ROGER. They did; but having the start, and being acquainted with the by-ways, I presently got clear of their voracious jaws.

DICK. A lucky escape, indeed, Roger; and what route did they take after that?

ROGER. Onwards, t'wards Lexington, devouring geese, cattle and swine, with fury and rage, which, no doubt, was increased by their disappointment; and what may appear strange to you Dick (tho' no more strange than true), is, they seem'd to be possessed of a kind of brutish music, growling something like our favourite tune Yankee Doodle (perhaps in ridicule), till it were almost threadbare, seeming vastly pleased (monkey-like) with their mimickry, as tho' it provoked us much.

DICK. Nature, Roger, has furnish'd some brute animals with voices, or, more properly speaking, with organs of sound that nearly resemble the human. I have heard of crocodiles weeping like a child, to decoy the unwary traveller, who is no sooner within their reach, but they seize and devour instantly.

ROGER. Very true, Dick, I have read of the same; and these wolves, being of the canine breed, and having the properties of blood-hounds, no doubt are possess'd of a more acute sense of smelling, more reason, instinct, sagacity, or what shall I call it? than all other brutes. It might have been a piece of cunning of theirs, peculiar to them, to make themselves pass for shepherds, and decoy our flocks; for, as you know, Dick, all our shepherds both play and sing Yankee Doodle, our sheep and lambs are as well acquainted with that tune as ourselves, and always make up to us whene'er they hear the sound.

DICK. Yes, Roger; and now you put me in mind of it I'll tell you of something surprising in my turn: I have an old ram and an old ewe, that, whenever they sing Yankee Doodle together, a skilful musician can scarcely distinguish it from the bass and tenor of an organ.

ROGER. Surprising indeed, Dick, nor do I in the least doubt it; and why not, as well as Balaam's ass, speak? and I might add, many other asses, now-a-days; and yet, how might that music be improved by a judicious disposition of its various parts, by the addition of a proper number of sheep and young lambs; 't would then likewise resemble the counter, counter tenor, treble, and finest pipes of an organ, and might be truly called nature's organ; methinks, Dick, I could forever sit and hear such music,

_Where all the parts in complication roll, And with its charming music feast the soul!_

DICK. Delightful, indeed; I'll attempt it with what little skill I have in music; we may then defy these wolves to imitate it, and thereby save our flocks: I am well convinced, Roger, these wolves intended it rather as a decoy than by way of ridicule, because they live by cunning and deception; besides, they could never mean to ridicule a piece of music, a tune, of which such brutes cannot be supposed to be judges, and, which is allowed by the best masters of music to be a composition of the most sublime kind, and would have done honour to a Handel or a Correllius. Well, go on, Roger, I long to hear the whole.

ROGER. When they came to Lexington, where a flock of our innocent sheep and young lambs, as usual, were feeding and sporting on the plain, these dogs of violence and rapine with haughty stride advanc'd, and berated them in a new and unheard of language to us.

DICK. I suppose learn'd at their own fam'd universities--

ROGER. No doubt; they had teachers among them--two old wolves their leaders, not unlike in features to Smith and Pitcairn, as striving to outvie each other in the very dregs of brutal eloquence, and more than Billingsgate jargon, howl'd in their ears such a peal of new-fangled execrations, and hell-invented oratory, till that day unheard in New-England, as struck the whole flock with horror, and made them for a while stand aghast, as tho' all the wolves in the forest had broke loose upon them.

DICK. Oh, shocking!--Roger, go on.

ROGER. Not content with this, their murdering leaders, with premeditated malice, keen appetite, and without provocation, gave the howl for the onset, when instantly the whole herd, as if the devil had entered into them, ran violently down the hill, and fixed their talons and jaws upon them, and as quick as lightning eight innocent young lambs fell a sacrifice to their fury, and victims to their rapacity; the very houses of our God were no longer a sanctuary; many they tore to pieces, and some at the very foot of the altar; others were dragged out as in a wanton, gamesome mood.

DICK. Barbarity inexpressible! more than savage cruelty! I hope you'll make their master pay for 'em; there is a law of this province, Roger, which obliges the owner of such dogs to pay for the mischief they do.

ROGER. I know it, Dick; he shall pay, never fear, and that handsomely too; he has paid part of it already.

DICK. Who is their master, Roger?

ROGER. One Lord Paramount; they call him a free-booter; a fellow who pretends to be proprietor of all America, and says he has a deed for it, and chief ranger of all the flocks, and pretends to have a patent for it; has been a long time in the practice of killing and stealing sheep in England and Ireland, and had like to have been hang'd for it there, but was reprieved by the means of his friend _George_--I forgot his other name--not Grenville--not George the Second--but another George--

DICK. It's no matter, he'll be hang'd yet; he has sent his dogs to a wrong place, and lugg'd the wrong sow by the ear; he should have sent them to Newfoundland, or Kamchatka, there's no sheep there--But never mind, go on, Roger.

ROGER. Nor was their voracious appetites satiated there; they rush'd into the town of Concord, and proceeded to devour every thing that lay in their way; and those brute devils, like Sampson's foxes (and as tho' they were men), thrice attempted with firebrands to destroy our corn, our town-house and habitations.

DICK. Heavens! Could not all this provoke you?

ROGER. It did; rage prompted us at length, and found us arms 'gainst such hellish mischief to oppose.

DICK. Oh, would I had been there!

ROGER. Our numbers increasing, and arm'd with revenge, we in our turn play'd the man; they, unus'd to wounds, with hideous yelling soon betook themselves to a precipitate and confused flight, nor did we give o'er the chase, till Phoebus grew drowsy, bade us desist, and wished us a good night.

DICK. Of some part of their hasty retreat I was a joyful spectator, I saw their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and heard them pant like hunted wolves indeed.

ROGER. Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.

DICK. Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chase, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heels over head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother--but, with bloody breech, made the best of his way--nor ever stopped till they were got safe within their lurking-holes--

ROGER. From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.

DICK. May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep-stealers, it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves, so early in the season--but, hark!--Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove--Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.

ROGER. With all my heart.--Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolic, and chorus it o'er and o'er again--This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.

SONG.

[TUNE. _The hounds are all out, &c._]

1.

Of _St. George_, or _St. Bute_, let the poet Laureat sing, Of _Pharaoh_ or _Pluto_ of old, While he rhymes forth their praise, in false, flattering lays, I'll sing of St. Tamm'ny the bold, my brave boys.

2.

Let Hibernia's sons boast, make Patrick their toast; And Scots Andrew's fame spread abroad. Potatoes and oats, and Welch leeks for Welch goats, Was never St. Tammany's food, my brave boys.

3.

In freedom's bright cause, Tamm'ny pled with applause, And reason'd most justly from nature; For this, this was his song, all, all the day long: Liberty's the right of each creature, brave boys.

4.

Whilst under an oak his great parliament sat, His throne was the crotch of the tree; With Solomon's look, without statutes or book, He wisely sent forth his decree, my brave boys.

5.

His subjects stood round, not the least noise or sound, Whilst freedom blaz'd full in each face: So plain were the laws, and each pleaded his cause; That might _Bute_, _North_ and _Mansfield_ disgrace, my brave boys.

6.

No duties, nor stamps, their blest liberty cramps, A king, tho' no _tyrant_, was he; He did oft'times declare, nay, sometimes wou'd swear, The least of his subjects were free, my brave boys.

7.

He, as king of the woods, of the rivers and floods, Had a right all beasts to controul; Yet, content with a few, to give nature her due: So gen'rous was Tammany's soul! my brave boys.

8.

In the morn he arose, and a-hunting he goes, Bold Nimrod his second was he. For his breakfast he'd take a large venison steak, And despis'd your slip-slops and tea, my brave boys.

9.

While all in a row, with squaw, dog and bow, Vermilion adorning his face, With feathery head he rang'd the woods wide: _St. George_ sure had never such grace, my brave boys?

10.

His jetty black hair, such as Buckskin saints wear, Perfumed with bear's grease well smear'd, Which illum'd the saint's face, and ran down apace, Like the oil from Aaron's old beard, my brave boys.

11.

The strong nervous deer, with amazing career, In swiftness he'd fairly run down; And, like Sampson, wou'd tear wolf, lion or bear. Ne'er was such a saint as our own, my brave boys.

12.

When he'd run down a stag, he behind him wou'd lag; For, so noble a soul had he! He'd stop, tho' he lost it, tradition reports it, To give him fresh chance to get free, my brave boys.

13.

With a mighty strong arm, and a masculine bow, His arrow he drew to the head, And as sure as he shot, it was ever his lot, His prey it fell instantly dead, my brave boys.

14.

His table he spread where the venison bled, Be thankful, he used to say; He'd laugh and he'd sing, tho' a saint and a king, And sumptuously dine on his prey, my brave boys.

15.

Then over the hills, o'er the mountains and rills He'd caper, such was his delight; And ne'er in his days, Indian history says, Did lack a good supper at night, my brave boys.

16.

On an old stump he sat, without cap or hat. When supper was ready to eat, _Snap_, his dog, he stood by, and cast a sheep's eye For ven'son, the king of all meat, my brave boys.

17.

Like Isaac of old, and both cast in one mould, Tho' a wigwam was Tamm'ny's cottage, He lov'd sav'ry meat, such that patriarchs eat, Of ven'son and squirrel made pottage, brave boys.

18.

When fourscore years old, as I've oft'times been told, To doubt it, sure, would not be right, With a pipe in his jaw, he'd buss his old squaw, And get a young saint ev'ry night, my brave boys.

19.

As old age came on, he grew blind, deaf and dumb, Tho' his sport, 'twere hard to keep from it, Quite tired of life, bid adieu to his wife, And blazed like the tail of a comet, brave boys.

20.

What country on earth, then, did ever give birth To such a magnanimous saint? His acts far excel all that history tell, And language too feeble to paint, my brave boys.

21.

Now, to finish my song, a full flowing bowl I'll quaff, and sing all the long day, And with punch and wine paint my cheeks for my saint, And hail ev'ry First of sweet _May_, my brave boys.

DICK. What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are precious.

[_Exeunt DICK and ROGER._