Such feats did they perform that day,
Against these wicked kegs, sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON

THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE

The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,
A-saying, "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,

For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.

"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."

The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home
In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.
With mother and sister and memories dear,

He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.

Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
To make his retreat; to make his retreat.

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,
Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
They took him and bore him afar from the shore,
To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.

No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
In his heart all was well; in his heart all was well.

An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,

Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by: "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he must soon die; for he must soon die."

The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained, —
The cruel general! the cruel general! —

His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,
And said that was all; and said that was all.

They took him and bound him and bore him away,

Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. 'T was there the base hirelings, in royal array,

His cause did deride; his cause did deride.

Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
For him to repent; for him to repent.

He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,
To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,

As he trode the last stage; as he trode 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,
Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;
Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
ANONYMOUS

BATTLE OF TRENTON

On Christmas-day in seventy-six,

Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,
For Trenton marched away.

The Delaware see! the boats below!
The light obscured by hail and snow!
But no signs of dismay.

Our object was the Hessian band,
That dared invade fair freedom's land,
And quarter in that place.

Great Washington he led us on,
Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,
Had never known disgrace.

In silent march we passed the night,
Each soldier panting for the fight,
Though quite benumbed with frost.
Greene on the left at six began,
The right was led by Sullivan,

Who ne'er a moment lost.

Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,
That rebels risen from the dead

Were marching into town.

Some scampered here, some scampered there,
And some for action did prepare ;

But soon their arms laid down.

Twelve hundred servile miscreants,
With all their colors, guns, and tents,
Were trophies of the day.

The frolic o'er, the bright canteen,
In centre, front, and rear was seen
Driving fatigue away.

Now, brothers of the patriot bands,
Let's sing deliverance from the hands

Of arbitrary sway.

And as our life is but a span,

Let's touch the tankard while we can,

In memory of that day.

ANONYMOUS

ROYALL TYLER

[Born at Boston, Massachusetts, July 18, 1757; died at Brattleboro, Vermont, August 16, 1826]

THE CONTRAST, A COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS

THE FIRST AMERICAN COMEDY REGULARLY PRODUCED. WRITTEN BY A CITIZEN OF The United STATES. PERFORMED IN 1787, AT THE THEATRE IN JOHN STREET, New York, 1790

FROM THE "ADVERTISEMENT”

"In justice to the Author it may be proper to observe that this Comedy has many claims to the public indulgence, independent of its intrinsic merits: It is the first essay of American genius in a difficult species of composition; it was written by one who never critically studied the rules of the drama, and indeed, has seen but few of the exhibitions of the stage; it was undertaken and finished in the course of three weeks; and the profits of one night's performance were appropriated to the benefit of the sufferers by the fire at Boston."

PROLOGUE, IN REBUKE OF THE PREVAILING ANGLOMANIA

Exult each patriot heart! - this night is shown
A piece which we may fairly call our own;

Where the proud titles of "My Lord! Your Grace!"

To humble "Mr." and plain "Sir" give place.

Our author pictures not from foreign climes

The fashions, or the follies of the times;

But has confined the subject of his work
To the gay scenes the circles of New York.
On native themes his Muse displays her powers;
If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours.
Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam,
When each refinement can be found at home?
Who travels now to ape the rich or great,
To deck an equipage and roll in state;
To court the graces, or to dance with ease,
Or by hypocrisy to strive to please?
Our free-born ancestors such arts despised;
Genuine sincerity alone they prized;
Their minds with honest emulation fired,
To solid good not ornament — aspired;
Or, if ambition roused a bolder flame,
Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame.
But modern youths, with imitative sense,
Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence;
And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts,
Since homespun habits would obscure their parts;
Whilst all, which aims at splendor and parade,
Must come from Europe, and be ready made.
Strange we should thus our native worth disclaim,
And check the progress of our rising fame.
Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway,
Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way.
Be roused, my friends! his bold example view;
Let your own bards be proud to copy you!
Should rigid critics reprobate our play,