Sullivan’s Island
1776.
A New War Song.
My lords, with your leave
An account will I give
That deserves to be written in metre:
For the rebels and I
Have been pretty nigh—
Faith, almost too much for Sir Peter.
With much labour and toil
Unto Sullivan’s Isle
I came, firm as Falstaff or Pistol,
But the Yankees (’od rot ’em,
I could not get at ’em)
Most terribly maul’d my poor Bristol.
Bold Clinton by land
Did quietly stand
While I made a thundering clatter;
But the channel was deep,
So he only could peep
And not venture over the water.
De’el take ’em; their shot
Came so swift and so hot,
And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,
That I put ship about,
And was glad to get out,
Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.
Now bold as a Turk
I proceed to New York,
Where with Clinton and Howe you may find me.
I’ve the wind in my tail,
And am hoisting my sail,
To leave Sullivan’s Island behind me.
But, my lords, do not fear,
For before the next year,
Although a small island could fret us,
The continent whole
We shall take, by my soul,
If the cowardly Yankees will let us.