He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood; And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,— His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, They took him and bound him and bore him away, His cause did deride; his cause did deride. Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood, As his words do presage, as his words do presage. "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 1776. THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE. [From the Same.] WHEN Jack the king's commander Was going to his duty, Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed To every blooming beauty. The city rung with feats he'd done In Portugal and Flanders, And all the town thought he'd be crowned The first of Alexanders. To Hampton Court he first repairs The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse And "all the peers," with loudest cheers, Then off he went to Canada, Next to Ticonderoga, And quitting those away he goes With great parade his march he made To such as stayed he offers made But savage bands should waste the lands But ah, the cruel fates of war! This boasted son of Britain, When mounting his triumphal car, The sons of Freedom gathered round, And when they'd fain have turned their back In vain they fought, in vain they fled; Brave St. Clair, when he first retired, His conduct have defended. Thus may America's brave sons The same as here recorded. SAID THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG. [McCarty's National Song Book.] AID Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review, These rebels their course very quickly will rue, And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew, And we soon will make them feel- That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys! As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game, He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame, No lack of skill, but fates, Shall make us yield to Gates, The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States, Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-0-0-0, boys! |