British officers in garrison at Boston and New York. They possess little merit. We give the

PROLOGUE TO ZARA.

Spoken by Lord Rawdon, at Boston.

In Britain once (it stains the historic page)
Freedom was vital-struck by party rage:
Cromwell the fever watch'd, the knife supplied,
She madden'd, and by suicide she died.
Amidst the groans sunk every liberal art
That polish'd life, or humanized the heart;
Then fell the stage, quell'd by the bigots' roar,
Truth fell with sense, and Shakspeare charm'd no

more.

To sooth the times too much resembling those,
And lull the care-tir'd thought, this stage arose;
Proud if you hear, rewarded if you're pleased,
We come to uninister to minds diseased.
To you, who, gar lians of a nation's cause,
Unsheath the sword to vindicate her laws,
The tragic scene holds glory up to view,
And bids heroic virtue live in you:
Unite the patriot's with the warrior's care
And, while you burn to conquer, wish to spare.
The comic scene presides o'er social life,
And forms the husband, father, friend and wife;
To paint from nature, and with colours nice
Shew us ourselves, and laugh us out of vice.
Now say, ye Bosto prudes, (if prudes there are)
Is this a task unworthy of the fair?
Will fane, decorum, piety refuse

A call on beauty to conduct the Muse?
Perish the narrow thought, the sland'rous tongue!
When the heart's right, the action can't be wrong.
Behold the test, mark at the curtain's rise
How Malice sinks abashed at Zara's eyes.†

The adventurous capture of General Prescott at New ort furnished ready material for a popular ballad, which was not lost sight of. Prescott was the commanding officer of the British troops in possession of Newport, and had rendered himself very unpopular by acts of petty tyranny. Lieutenant-Colonel Barton, of the American militia at Providence, determined to take him prisoner. Embarking with a small party of picked men in four whale-boats, they crossed on the night of the tenth of July, 1777, Narragansett bay to the house of a Quaker named Overing, Prescott's head-quarters, about five miles from the town. Gagging the sentinel, they entered the house unperceived, roused Prescott from his bed, and carried him off without giving him time to dress, speed being essential to success in the daring exploit, from the presence of three British frigates in the bay close to the house. The party re

The following paragraph from an Tnglish journal of the period furnishes us with some valuable information, hitherto we believe unnoticed, relative to the amateur performances by officers of the any, which appear froin their frequency to have been extremely popular during the British occupancy of our cities.

"An American Correspondent says, that the officers of the army in New York, concerned in the management of the theatre, there form a body like any other company of Comedians, and share the profits arising from their exhibitions. To people on this side the water, it may seem mean for British officers to perform for hire; but in New York necessaries are so extremely dear, that an inferior officer, who has no other resources than his pay, undergoes more difficulties than the common soldier; and circumstanced as many brave men now are in America, such an exertion of their talents to increase their incomes deserves the greatest, encouragement."-1781, Upcotts Newspaper Cuttings.

A parody on this prologue was published in the Freeman's Journal or New Hampshire Gazette, June 22, 1776.

crossed in safety, and conveyed their prisoner to Providence, and thence to Washington's headquarters on the Hudson: Prescott remained a prisoner until the following April, when he was exchanged for General Charles Lee, and returned to his troops in Rhode Island. Barton received a sword, and a grant of land in Vermont, from Congress. He subsequently became involved in legal proceedings in consequence of a transfer of a portion of this tract, and was thrown into prison for debt, where he remained until the visit of Lafayette in 1825, who, hearing of the circumstance, paid the debt and released the old soldier.*

The ballad written on the occasion, it is said, was served up to Prescott himself when he returned to his station. The story is thus told :

Shortly after his exchange he returned to Rhode Island, and was invited to dine on board the admiral's ship, with many other officers of the highest grade. General Prescott was naturally a haughty, imperious man, and as a commander was very unpopular with his officers and soldiers, and with the citizens of Newport, but a brave and skilful officer.

It was often that boys as well as men were sent from the town on board the admiral's ship for any offence, and confined there for some time, by the arbitrary authority of those in power. Martial law was the law of the place. A small lad, about thirteen years of age, was placed in this situation previous to General Prescott's return, and was on board, with many others, at the time the general dined there. He did not know General Prescott.

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After dinner the wine circulated freely, and a toast and song were repeatedly called for. In the course of the evening the first lieutenant observed to the admiral, who was a real jolly son of Neptune, that "there was a Yaukee lad on board who would shame all the singing." Bring him up here," says Prescott. The boy was accordingly brought into the cabin. The admiral called on him to give them a song. The little fellow, being somewhat intimidated by gold-laced coats, epaulettes, &c., replied, “I can't sing any songs but Yankee songs." The admiral, perceiving that he was embarrassed, ordered the steward to give him a glass of wine, saying, "Come, my little fellow, don't be frightened; give us one of your Yankee songs." General Prescott spoke in his usual haughty, imperious manner, "You d-d young rebel, give us a song or I'll give you a dozen." The admiral interfered, and assured the lad that he should be set at liberty the next day, "if he would give them a song-any one he could

recollect."

The following doggerel, written by a sailor of Newport, was then given, to the great amusement of the company.

'Twas on a dark and stormy night,
The wind and waves did roar,
Bold Barton then, with twenty men,
Went down upon the shore.

And in a whale-boat they set off
To Rhode Island fair,
To catch a red-coat general

Who then resided there.

Through British fleets and guard-boats strong.
They held their dangerous way,
Till they arrived unto their port,
And then did not delay.

Lossing's Field-Book, ii. 75.

A tawny son of Afric's race

Them through the ravine led,
And entering then the Overing House,
They found him in his bed.

But to get in they had no means

Except poor Cuffee's head,

Who beat the door down, then rush'd in,
And seized him in his bed.

"Stop! let me put my breeches on,"
The general then did
pray:
"Your breeches, massa, I will take,
For dress we cannot stay."

Then through rye-stubble him they led,
With shoes and breeches none,

And placed him in their boat quite snug,
And from the shore were gone.
Soon the alarm was sounded loud,
"The Yankees they have come,
And stolen Prescott from his bed,

And him they've carried hum."

The drums were beat, skyrockets flew,
The soldiers shoulder'd arms,

And march'd around the ground they knew,
Fill'd with most dire alarms.

But through the fleet with muffled oars
They held their devious way,

And landed him on 'Ganset shore
Where Britain held no sway.

When unto land they came,

Where rescue there was none,

A d-d bold push," the general cried,

'Of prisoners I am one.'

There was a general shout of all the company during the whole song, and at the close, one who was a prisoner on board at the time, observed, he thought the deck would come through with the stamping and cheering."

General Prescott joined most heartily in the merriment. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he handed the boy a guinea, saying, "Here, you young dog, is a guinea for you." The boy was set at liberty the next morning.

This anecdote is often related by an aged gentleman living at Newport.*

There is another version thus given in Mrs. Williams's Life of Barton.

The day was spent, the evening fair,
When Barton marched his men with caref
Down to the river's side;
And unto them most nobly said—
"Let none embark who are afraid
To cross the swelling tide."

But they, like hardy sons of Mars,
Inured to hardships and to wars,
Most nobly did reply;
"With manly rage our souls on fire,
We scorn the thought for to retire;
We conquer will or die."

Thus did they cross and march away,
Where Prescott's host encamped lay,

On hostile measures bent;

McCarty's Songs, ii. 367-369, quoted from Plymouth Memorial, 1885.

+ This song is still in traditional circulation: A friend had it from an old soldier, who commenced his recitation vigor. ously:

The moon shone bright, the night was clear,
Bold Barton march'd his men with keer,

Young David took this bloody Saul,
And sentry, aid-de-camp, and all,
Back to the boat they went.
You watchful host who round him kept,
To guard your General while he slept,
Now you have lost your head;
Since they from freedom's happy shore,
Return'd and brought their booty o'er,
The hero from his bed.

Go to your king, and to him say,
"Call home your troops, call them away,
Or Prescott's fate they'll share."
For Barton, with his sling and stone,
Will bring the great Goliah down,
And catch him in a snare.*

We are indebted to North Carolina "Wood Notes" for the following

TRIBUTE TO GENERAL FRANCIS NASH.

Genius of Freedom! whither art thou filed?
While fields of death thy sons undaunted tread,
Lo, where for thee thy brightest heroes fall,
And not thy shield to ward the winged ball.

On Bunker's height great Warren is no more;
The brave Montgomery's fate we next deplore;
Princeton's fam'd fields to trembling Britain tell,
How, scored with wounds, the conquering Mercer
fell;

New England's boast, the generous Wooster, slain,
Demands our tears; while Britons fly the plain.
Last flow our sorrows for a favourite son,
Whom, weeping, Carolina claims her own,

The gallant Nash, who, with the fatal wound,

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Though tortured, welt'ring on the hostile ground, Fight on, my troops," with smiling ardor said, ""Tis but the fate of war, be not dismay’d.”

High Heaven ordain'd for great designs this woe, Which, till the destined period, none must know. Heroes of old thus for their country stood, Raised mighty empires, founded with their blood; In this new world like great events must come; Thus Athens rose, and thus imperial Rome.

Inscribed to Col. Thomas Clark, of the First North Carolina Battalion, by his friend and most obedient humble servant, ALEX. MARTIN.

Camp, near Germantown. Oct. 30, 1777.

General Nash was wounded on the fourth, and died on the seventh of October, 1777. Lieut.-Col. Alexander Martin, the author of the lines, at the close of the war became governor of his native state of North Carolina, and afterwards a senator of the United States. Col. Clark succeeded to Nash's command.‡

The unsuccessful attempt, in connexion with the French fleet, to dislodge the British from Newport, in July, 1778, gave occasion to a lively Tory effusion.

YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND,
Written at Philadelphia.

They bow'd to him, and he to them,
And then they all sat down, Sir.
Chorus. Yankee Doodle, &c.

II.

Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup
You shall bientot behold, Sir,
This was believ'd as Gospel true,
And Jonathan felt bold, Sir.

III.

So Yankee Doodle did forget

The sound of British drum, Sir, How oft it made him quake and sweat In spite of Yankee rum, Sir.

IV.

He took his wallet on his back,

His rifle on his shoulder, And vow'd Rhode Island to attack Before he was much older.

V.

In dread array their tatter'd crew, Advanced with colours spread, Sir; Their fifes play'd Yankee Doodle doo, King Hancock at their head, Sir.

VI.

What numbers bravely cross'd the seas, I cannot well determine,

A swarm of rebels and of fleas,

And every other vermin.

VII.

Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,
For all flesh only grass is,

A plenteous store they therefore brougt
Of whiskey and molasses.

VIIL

They swore they'd make bold Pigot squeak, So did their good Ally, Sir,

And take him prisoner in a week;

But that was all my eye, Sir.

IX.

As Jonathan so much desir'd, To shine in martial story, D'Estaing with politesse retir'd To leave him all the glory.

X.

He left him what was better yet, At least it was more use, Sir, He left him for a quick retreat, A very good excuse, Sir.

XI.

To stay, unless he ruled the sea,
He thought would not be right, Sir,
And Continental troops, said he,

On islands should not fight, Sir.

XII.

Another cause with these combin'd,
To throw him in the dumps, Sir,
For Clinton's name alarmed his mind
And made him stir his stumps, Sir,
Sing Yankee doodle doodle doo.
Rivington's Royal Gazette, Oct. 3, 1778.

The next event of the war of which we offer poetical commemoration, is the Massacre at Wyoming. The ballad which follows is printed, apparently for the first time, in the Appendix to

WYOMING MASSACRE.

Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,
While she attempts to tell

Of poor Wyoming's overthrow,
By savage sons of hell.

One hundred whites, in painted hue,
Whom Butler there did lead,
Supported by a barb'rous crew
Of the fierce savage breed.

The last of June the siege began,
And several days it held,

While many a brave and valiant man
Lay slaughtered on the field.

Our troops marched out from Forty Fort,
The third day of July,

Three hundred strong, they marched along,
The fate of war to try.

But oh! alas! three hundred men,
Is much too small a band,

To meet eight hundred men complete,
And make a glorious stand.

Four miles they marched from the Fort
Their enemy to meet,

Too far indeed did Butler lead,

To keep a safe retreat.

And now the fatal hour is come

They bravely charge the foe,
And they with ire, returned the fire,
Which prov'd our overthrow.

Some minutes they sustained the fire,
But ere they were aware
They were encompassed all around
Which prov'd a fatal snare.

And then they did attempt to fly,
But all was now in vain,
Their little host-by far the most-
Was by those Indians slain.
And as they fly, for quarters cry;
Oh hear indulgent Heav'n!
Hard to relate their dreadful fate,
No quarters must be given.

With bitter cries and mournful sighs

They seek some safe retreat,

Run here and there, they know not where,
Till awful death they meet.

Their piercing cries salute the skies-
Mercy is all their cry:

"And as for you, enlisted crew,

We'll raise your honours higher:
Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,
In yonder burning fire."

Then naked in those flames they're cast,
Too dreadful 'tis to tell,
Where they must fry, and burn and die,
While cursed Indians yell.

Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,-
The youth, and hoary head,
Were by those monsters murdered there,
And numbered with the dead.

Methinks I hear some sprightly youth,

His mournful state condole:
"O, that my tender parents knew,
The anguish of my soul.

"But O! there's none to save my life,
Or heed my dreadful fear;
I see the tomahawk and knife,
And the more glittering spear.
When years ago, I dandled was
Upon my parents' knees,

I little thought I should be brought
To feel such pangs as these.

"I hoped for many a joyful day,
I hoped for riches' store-
These golden dreams are fled away;
I straight shall be no more.

"Farewell, fond mother; late I was,
Locked up in your embrace;

Your heart would ache, and even break,
If you could know my case.

"Farewell, indulgent parents dear,
I must resign my breath;

I now must die, and here must lie
In the cold arms of death.

"For O! the fatal hour is come,

I see the bloody knife,

The Lord have mercy on my soul !"
And quick resigned his life.
A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,
Pursue the doleful theme:
It is no fancy to delude,

Nor transitory dream.

The Forty Fort was the resort,
For mother and for child,

To save them from the cruel rage,
Of the fierce savage wild.

Now, when the news of this defeat,
Had sounded in our ears,

You well may know our dreadful woe,
And our foreboding fears.

A doleful sound is whispered round,
The sun now hides his head;

The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,
We all shall soon be dead.

How can we bear the dreadful spear,
The tomahawk and knife?

And if we run, the awful gun,

Will rob us of our life.

But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!
His hand we must adore.

He did assuage the savage rage,
That they should kill no more.

The gloomy night now gone and past,

The sun returns again,

The little birds from every bush,
Seem to lament the slain.

With aching hearts and trembling hands
We walked here and there,
Till through the northern pines we saw,
A flag approaching near.

Some men were chose to meet this flag,
Our colonel was the chief,
Who soon returned and in his mouth
He brought an olive leaf.
This olive leaf was granted life,
But then we must no more,
Pretend to fight with Britain's king,
Until the wars are o'er.

And now poor Westmoreland is lost,
Our forts are all resigned,
Our buildings they are all on fire,-
What shelter can we find?
They did agree in black and white,
If we'd lay down our arms,
That all who pleased might quietly
Remain upon their farms.

But O! they've robbed us of our all,
They've taken all but life,

And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,
If this may end the strife.

And now I've told my mournful tale,
I hope you'll all agree,

To help our cause and break the jaws
Of cruel tyranny.

In the same year, appeared from the press of Thomas and Samuel Green, New Haven, a pamphlet entitled Poems, occasioned by several circumstances and reminiscences in the present grand contest of America for Liberty. The author has been ascertained by the Rev. Stephen Dodd, of East Haven church, who has republished the poems,* to have been the Rev. Wheeler Case, pastor of the Presbyterian church of Pleasant Valley, Dutchess courty, New York. He states in his preface that some of the pieces have been written merely for amusement, and others with design to promote the cause of liberty, into whose Treasury he casts his mite in publishing them. They are quaint and spirited expressions of patriotism and piety, mainly elicited by the defeat of Burgoyne. The struggle is symbolized by a contest between the eagle and the crane, in which the latter (in 1776) is hopefully made to come off victorious. The

แ tragical death of Miss M'Crea" is celebrated with more feeling than art. In the verses, “An Answer to the Messengers of the Nation," with a text from Isaiah, the writer expresses the not uncommon feeling of the pulpit of those days towards General Washington, who was looked to as a deliverer under the protection of heaven, "the sword of the Lord and of Gideon."

We give two passages from this old volume for their earnestness and their historical value.

WASHINGTON.

Let not my theme by any be abus'd,

Tho' Zion's founded, means must yet be us
When foes with spears rush on us like a flood,
Curs'd be the man who keeps his sword from blood†.
When wonders great for Zion have been done,

GOD and his people went to war as one.

Revolutionary Memorials, embracing Poems by the Rev. Wheeler Case. New York: M. W. Dodd. 1859. t Jer. xlviii. 10.

Gideon went forth against a mighty host,
Three hundred men were all that he could boast;
Before these few the Midianites now fall.
It was one sword alone that did it all,
E'en by the sword of God and Gideon.
What great exploits were done by Israel's King,
How we hear this hero vict'ry sing.

Where did he learn this skill, or whence this might?
The God of armies taught his hands to fight.
When Zion's foes against her did conspire,

Hail-stones from heaven were sent, and flames of fire.
To crush her foes and maintain her cause,
The God of nature alters nature's laws;

The sun and moon are stopp'd, they cease to run, 'Till Joshua's work is o'er, his work is done. Joshua the hero, and the man of GOD,

Rais'd up his eye, his mandate sent abroad,
Thou sun, bright lamp of day, thou moon, stand still,
Nor dare advance to yonder Western hill,

"Till I have crush'd my foes and done JEHOVAH's will.
But why need we go back to ancient dates,
While wonders gre it are done within these States?
JEHOVAH'S power, his all-wise providence,
Hath been engag'd for us in our defence.
Let's eye that Providence, adore the hand,
That raid for us a Joshua in our land.

O what a blessing to the States! it is our bliss,
Great WASHINGTON was rais'd for such a day as this.
How good, how kind is most indulgent heav'n,
That such a leader to our army's giv'n!
What great exploits he and his troops have done!
How bravely they have fought, what vict'ries won.
It was the LORD that did their breasts inspire
With thirst for liberty and martial fire,
'Twas he their operations plann'd so well,
And fought for them, e'en when ten thousand fell.
When these affairs are view'd and duly scann'd,
He's blind that does not see JEHOVAH's hand.
See Washington thro' Jersey State retreat,
His foes rejoice-they thought that he was beat;
Howe him pursues with speed, he presses on,
He thought the day his own, the vict'ry won.
The secret friends of George their offrings bring,
They boldly raise their head, and own their King:
A gloom is spread around, alas! what grief,
We know not where to go to find relief.
A storm of snow and hail the LORD sent down,
A blessed season this for Washington:
He now return'd, and thro' the storm he press'd,
And caught twelve hundred Hessians in their nest.
Our hero pitch'd his tents near Trenton bridge,
Howe gather'd all his troops upon a ridge,
Not far from where his little army lay,
Impatient waits his vengeance to display,
Determin'd when the shades of night were o'er,
Great Washington should fall and be no more.
But he with skill consummate did retire,
Soon made the foe at Princeton feel his ire,
Leaving the valiant Howe to fight the fire.*

THE FALL OF BURGOYNE.

Is this Burgoyne, Burgoyne the great,
Who fill'd our land with woe,

And threaten'd vengeance from the state,
Is he now fell so low?

Is't he that made the earth to tremble,
That was so great a curse,

* General Washington ordered a number of fires to be made, and kept burning till towards day. In the middle of the night he made a forced march to Princeton, where he attacked and took two regiments stationed there. In the morning Howe was preparing to attack Washington, and much elated with expectations of crushing him, sent out his spies to make discoveries; but to his great surprise was soon informed where Washington was, by hearing the heavy cannonade at Princeton.

That doth great Babel's king resemble,
Is he now weak like us?

To Indians he gives stretch no more,
Nor them supplies with knives
To stain our land with crimson gore,
With them to scalp our wives.
His threat'ning proclamation's stopp'd,
He's now o'erspread with gloom,
The wings with which he flew are cropp'd,
He has no elbow-room.

His titles he proclaims no more,

No more his triumphs spread,
His thund'ring cannon cease to roar,
And all his joys are fled.

Where is his great and mighty host,
That huge gigantic race,

The sons of Anak, Britain's boast?
They're pris'ners in disgrace.
Pris'ners to rebels, Yankies too,
O mortifying stroke!

They caught Burgoyne with all his crew,
Britons now wear the yoke.

Great WASHINGTON, that man of might,
Hath laid a snare for Howe,

Unless with speed he takes his flight,
He to the yoke must bow.

W.

During this year Rivington's contributors kept up a constant succession of pasquinades. quote a few:

NEW YORK, October 24, 1778.

INTELLIGENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

We learn from Philadelphia, that there was lately exhibited in that city, an admirable Farce called INDEPENDENCE. Who was the author is not positively known. Some people are of opinion, that it is the work of a certain Quack Doctor, called FRANKLIN. Others assert, that it is the joint production of the strolling company by whom it was acted; it is, however, generally allowed, that one Adams gave the first hint, contrived the plot, and cast the parts. It appeared in the exhibition so tragi-comical that the audience were at a loss whether to laugh or cry, they were, however, well pleased with the catastrophe, and joined heartily in the following chorus, which was sung by the excellent actor who played the part of the PRESIDENT. The celebrated Voltaire somewhere relates, that a song was the cause of the REFORMATION in France.

SONG.

Our farce is now finish'd, your sport's at an end,
But ere you depart, let the voice of a friend,
By way of a chorus the evening crown,
With a song to the tune of a hey derry down.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Old Shakspeare, a poet who should not be spit on,
Altho' he was born in the island called Briton,
Hath said that mankind are all players at best,
A truth we'll admit of, for the sake of the jest.
Derry down, &c.

On this puny stage we have strutted our hour,
And have acted our parts to the best of our power.
That the farce has concluded not perfectly well
Was surely the fault of the Devil in Hell.

Derry down, &c.

This Devil, you know, out of spleen to the church,
Will often times leave his best friends in the lurch,
And turn them adrift in the midst of their joy;
"Tis a difficult matter to cheat the old boy.
Derry down, &c.