Posts filed under ‘.U.S.A’

The Battle of Stonington

by Philip Freneau


In an attack upon the town and a small fort of two guns, by the Ramillies, seventy-four gun ship, commanded by Sir Thomas Hardy; the Pactolus, 38 gun ship, Despatch, brig of 22 guns, and a razee, or bomb ship.—August, 1814.

Four gallant ships from England came
Freighted deep with fire and flame,
And other things we need not name,
To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor’d, their work begun;
They thought to make the yankees run,
And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon, then popp’d up his head
And parson Jones’s sermon read,
In which the reverend doctor said
That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penn’d,
By which they promised to defend
With sword and gun, old Stonington.

The ships advancing different ways,
The britons soon began to blaze,
And put th’ old women in amaze,
Who fear’d the loss of Stonington.

The yankees to their fort repair’d,
And made as though they little cared
For all that came—though very hard
The cannon play’d on Stonington.

The Ramillies began the attack,
Despatch came forward—bold and black—
And none can tell what kept them back
From setting fire to Stonington.

The bombardiers with bomb and ball,
Soon made a farmer’s barrack fall,
And did a cow-house sadly maul
That stood a mile from Stonington.

They kill’d a goose, they kill’d a hen,
Three hogs they wounded in a pen—
They dash’d away, and pray what then?
This was not taking Stonington.

The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,
But not a shell, of all they threw,
Though every house was full in view,
Could burn a house at Stonington.

To have their turn they thought but fair;—
The yankees brought two guns to bear,
And, sir, it would have made you stare,
This smoke of smokes at Stonington.

They bored Pactolus through and through,
And kill’d and wounded of her crew
So many, that she bade adieu
T’ the gallant boys of Stonington.

The brig Despatch was hull’d and torn—
So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,
No more she cast an eye of scorn
On th’ little fort at Stonington.

The Ramillies gave up th’ affray
And, with her comrades, sneak’d away—
Such was the valor, on that day,
Of british tars near Stonington.

But some assert, on certain grounds,
(Besides the damage and the wounds)
It cost the king ten thousand pounds
To have a dash at Stonington.



September 20, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

ANNIVERSARY: The Pony Express

155th Anniversary of the Pony Express


April 14, 2015 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Oh, California

I sailed from Salem City with my wash-bowl on my knee,
I’m goin’ to Cal-i-for-ni-a, the gold dust for to see.
It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry,
The sun so hot I froze to death, oh brothers don’t you cry!

Oh, California, that’s the land for me!
I’m goin’ to San Francisco with my wash-bowl on my knee.

I soon shall be in Frisco, and there I’ll look around,
And when I find the gold lumps there I’ll pick them off the ground.
I’ll scrape the mountains clean, my boys, I’ll drain the rivers dry,
A pocketfut of rocks bring home, oh brothers don’t you cry!

Oh, California, that’s the land for me!
I’m goin’ to San Francisco with my wash-bowl on my knee.

I’ll take my wash-bowl in my hand an thither wind my way,
To wash the gold from out the sand in Cal-i-for-ni-a.
And when I get my pocket full in that bright land of gold,
I’ll have a rich and happy time, liver merry till I’m old.

Oh, California, that’s the land for me!
I’m goin’ to San Francisco with my wash-bowl on my knee.

September 21, 2013 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment