Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.

An Historic Song, in the Duitch Style

GREAT BRITAIN he was a lion,

And thought his paws were strong;

I must make sound comparison,

For to finish out my song.

There’s a snake he can grow no bigger

When he has got his length;

When his head it is mash’d in pieces,

Then his body has lost his strength.

England has lost America,

So sure as the fire burns,

And he never, never more, will get him back again,

So long as when water runs.

’Twas a terrible foolish thing,

For a parliament and a king,

To quarrel about a dish of tea,

And lose this coun—try.

England has made a foolish turn,

And quite a foolish thing;

She swopp’d a special cow for a churn,

And thought that churn was cream.

’Twas a very foolish thing,

For a parliament and a king;

And they’d better, better hang Lord North on a tree

Than to lose this coun—try.

If France and Spain had not join’d with America,

Both on the land and sea,

George King would ha’ soon let us know

What for Boston has burn his tea.

But the Lord he was merciful,

And he shear’d off all their wool,

Pull’d out their teeth, and hobbled their feet,

And burn’d up all their fleet.

There was Mr. Burgoyne, he came to America,

And he thought his men they had strength:

But the Lord he did turn their joy to fear,

In every our camp.

Then they wish’d they were at home,

And they would let us alone,

And they never, never more would fight with a Whig,

With either gun or stick.

There was Mr. Cornwallis, he travell’d many miles,

America up and down,

Till at last his kettle it did over boil,

And the fire got all around.

Then he cried out, “I protest

Mr. George Washington fights the best,

For he is able to smash my kettle, and all,

With his great big cannon-balls.

George Washington will make his hay,

If it does not rain, neither snow:

His scythes they are hammer’d mighty well,

And his boys they can bravely mow.

They whet their scythes with a ball

To frighten the English all,

And every Tory of this land

Who carries a wooden sword.

Then lift up your eyes, who sleep all day,

On pride, on foolishness,

’Tis a special time for to make good hay,

When the sun shines warm on us.

And to show no malice, neither spite,

To them that are willing to fight:

But humble yourselves in love of peace,

And the Lord he shall send you grace.