Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Battle of the Kegs
By Francis Hopkinson (17371791)
G
Trill forth harmonious ditty;
Strange things I ’ll tell, which late befell,
In Philadelphia city.
Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood, on a log of wood,
And saw a thing surprising.
The truth can’t be denied, sir,
He spied a score of kegs or more
Come floating down the tide, sir.
This strange appearance viewing,
First damned his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said, “Some mischief ’s brewing.
Packed up like pickled herring,
And they ’re come down, to attack the town,
In this new way of ferrying.”
And, scared almost to death, sir,
Wore out their shoes to spread the news,
And ran till out of breath, sir.
Most frantic scenes were acted;
And some ran here, and others there,
Like men almost distracted.
But said the earth had quakéd;
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran through the streets half naked.
From sleep Sir William starts upright,
Awaked by such a clatter;
He rubs his eyes, and boldly cries,
“For God’s sake, what ’s the matter?”
Sir Erskine at command, sir,
Upon one foot he had one boot,
And t’ other in his hand, sir.
“The rebels,—more ’s the pity,—
Without a boat, are all afloat,
And ranged before the city.
With Satan for their guide, sir,
Packed up in bags or wooden kegs,
Come driving down the tide, sir.
These kegs must all be routed,
Or surely we despised shall be,
And British courage doubted.”
All ranged in dread array, sir,
With stomachs stout, to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began, I ’m sure no man
Ere saw so strange a battle.
With rebel trees surrounded,
The distant woods, the hills and floods,
With rebel echoes sounded.
Attacked from every quarter;
Why sure, thought they, the devil ’s to pay,
’Mongst folks above the water.
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,
Could not oppose their powerful foes,
The conquering British troops, sir.
Displayed amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retired to sup their porridge.
Or more, upon my word, sir,
It is most true would be too few,
Their valor to record, sir.
Against those wicked kegs, sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They ’ll make their boasts and brags, sir.