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'Twas early day, as poets say,
Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood,
And saw a thing surprising.
As in amaze he stood to gaze,
The truth can't be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more
Come floating down the tide, sir.
A sailor too, in jerkin blue,
This strange appearance viewing, First damn’d his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said, “ Some mischief's brewing.
“These kegs, I'm told, the rebels bold,
Pack'd up like pickled herring ; And they 're come down t attack the town,
In this new way of ferrying."
The soldier flew, the sailor too,
And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,
And ran till out of breath, sir.
Now up and down, throughout the town,
Most frantic scenes were acted ; And some ran here, and others there,
Like men almost distracted.
Some fire cried, which some denied,
But said the earth had quaked ;
Ran through the streets half naked.
Sir William he, snug as a flea,
Lay all this time a snoring,
In bed with Mrs L
Now in a fright he starts upright,
Awaked by such a clatter;
“For God's sake, what's the matter?'
At his bedside he then espied
Sir Erskine at command, sir, Upon one foot he had one boot,
And the other in his hand, sir.
“ Arise, arise,” Sir Erskine cries,
“ The rebels—more's the pity, Without a boat are all afloat,
And ranged before the city.
“ The motly crew, in vessels new,
With Satan for their guide, sir. Pack'd up in bags, or wooden kegs,
Come driving down the tide, sir.
“ Therefore prepare for bloody war,
These kegs must all be routed, Or surely we despised shall be, And British courage
The royal band now ready stand,
All ranged in dread array, sir, With stomach stout to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore,
The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began I'm sure no man
E’er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
With rebel trees surrounded;
With rebel echoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro,
Attack'd from every quarter; Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay,
'Mongst folks above the water.
The kegs, 't is said, though strongly made,
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes,
The conquering British troops, sir.
From morn to night these men of might
Display'd amazing courage;
Retired to sup their porridge.
An hundred men with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, sir.
Their valor, to record, sir.
Such feats did they perform that day,
Against these wicked kegs, sir,
They 'll make their boasts and brags, sir.
Soft ideas love inspiring,
Every placid joy unite;
Fill my bosom with delight.
Soft ideas, gently flowing,
On your tide, so calm and still ;
Wave the pines on Borden's Hill.
Where the breezes odors bringing,
Fill the grove with murmuring sound ; Where shrill notes of birds, sweet singing,
Echo to the hills around.
To the pleasing gloom convey me,
Let my Delia too be there;
On her bosom soft and fair.
Whilst I there, with rapture burning,
All my joy in her express,
Me with fond caresses bless.
On his little wings descending,
Bring the god of soft delight:
Must our hands and hearts unite.
She the source of all my pleasure
Shall my breast with transport fill;
Delia, pride of Borden's Hill.
COME, fair Rosina, come away,
Long since stern winter's storms have ceased ! See! Nature, in her best array,
Invites us to her rural feast:
Her mellow fruits and harvests brown,
And every breeze pour fragrance down.
At noon we'll seek the wild wood's shade,
And o'er the pathless verdure rove; Or, near a mossy fountain laid,
Attend the music of the grove. At eve, the sloping mead invites
'Midst lowing herds and focks to stray ; Each hour shall furnish new delights,
And love and joy shall crown the day.
O'ER the hills far away, at the birth of the morn, I hear the full tone of the sweet sounding horn; The sportsmen with shoutings all hail the new day, And swift run the hounds o'er the hills far away. Across the deep valley their course they pursue, And rush through the thickets yet silver'd with dew; Nor hedges nor ditches their speed can delayStill sounds the sweet horn o'er the hills far away.
My generous heart disdains
The slave of love to be,
My generous heart disdains, &c.
Still uncertain is tomorrow,
My generous heart disdains, &c.
LINES ON THE QUARREL AMONG THE STUDENTS IN ANATO
MY IN PHILADELPHIA.
FRIENDS and associates ! lend a patient ear,
- your wrath forbear-
Surely some fatal influenza reigns,