Not Fulton, when his steam he try'd And Neptune's car stemm'd Hudson's tide Felt such a generous glow of pride For well earn'd fame.
That day Cornwallis met his fate, Not Washington felt half so great When tow'rd him flew the gallic fleet To share his smile:
Not conquest had for Gates such charms When, yielding to the victor's arms, He bade Burgoyne resign his arms, In soldier's style.
Not Ajax' self, with such a grace Gave orders to attack a place; Not Hannibal with bolder face Approach'd old Rome,--
When marching for the Tiber shore, He yet his alpine jacket wore, And hoped to sweep the senate floor, And fix their doom:
Not Parker,[A] when he cross'd the bar Of Charleston with his men of war, Was, near fort Moultrie, half so sure Of victory gain'd:
[A] Sir Peter Parker, it is well remembered, attacked fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, in 1776, and after a sanguinary action, was repulsed with great loss.--_Freneau's note._
Not Parker, when departing thence So shatter'd--at the king's expense-- Was so provoked at the defence, Felt so chagrined,
As did our chief (no captain Brag) When he perceiv'd some worthless wag Had stolen away the brandy keg-- Ah! loss indeed!
For this, he swore he would resign, All future trust in man decline; Of whom, at least, there was one swine, They all agreed--
And cry'd "like hell his heart is black-- Pursue him, boys, and scent his track, If drunk or dead, we'll have him back, This man of scum!"
Each took his mark, and hit a tree; The battle's done!--all sober, we; Huzza! we have the victory! Then scamper'd home!
"Ye powers who rule the western gale Not for the golden fleece we sail, Nor yet on wild ambition's plan, But vengeance gathers man with man.
For wrongs which wearied patience bore, For slighted rules of legal war, We rear our flag, our sails display, And east north east explore our way.
Let some assert, ten thousand pounds Would place our fleet on british grounds, And urge us onward to saint James To wrap his palaces in flames.
A motive of so mean a cast Allures no mind, excites no breast; From such reward we loathing turn And would at such a proffer spurn.
No--to retaliate on the foe, Free-will'd, we independent go, Our ship well mann'd, in war's attire, To light the skies with english fire.