William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
Battle of Bunker HillI
The Yankees did surprise us,
With their strong works they had thrown up,
To burn the town and drive us.
An order to defeat them;
Like rebels stout, they stood it out,
And thought we ne’er could beat them.
An order came for marching,
With three good flints, and sixty rounds,
Each man hoped to discharge them.
Where boats were ready waiting;
With expedition we embark’d,
Our ships kept cannonading.
With officers and soldiers,
With as good troops as England had,
To oppose who dare control us?
We row’d in line of battle,
Where showers of ball like hail did fly,
Our cannon loud did rattle.
Our twenty-fours they played;
And the three frigates in the stream,
That very well behaved.
All at the time of landing,
With her grape-shot and cannon-balls.
No Yankees e’er could stand them.
We draw’d up all together;
The Yankees they all mann’d their works,
And thought we’d ne’er come thither.
Brave Howe, our bold commander;
With grenadiers, and infantry,
We made them to surrender.
Cried, “Boys, fight on like thunder;
You soon will see the rebels flee,
With great amaze and wonder.”
And some fell fast a running
O’er hill and dales, and mountains high,
Crying, “Zounds! brave Howe’s a coming.”
As to guard against all dangers:
He allow’d each half a gill this day;
To rum we were no strangers.
Where Pigot, he commanded;
But we return’d it back again,
With courage most undaunted.
To which they were but strangers,
They thought to come with sword in hand,
But soon they found their danger.
And put them to the flight, sir,
They pepper’d us, poor British elves,
And show’d us they could fight, sir.
With some hard knocks and danger;
Their works we found both firm and strong,
Too strong for British Rangers.
They gave all way and run,
For while their ammunition held,
They gave us Yankee fun.
For his misconduct, sure, sir;
The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,
Were made for twenty-fours, sir.
As we the field were taking,
We went to kill their countrymen,
While they their hay were making.
To hang them all I’d rather;
By making hay with musket-balls,
Lord Howe cursedly did bother.
For he’s despised by many;
The name of Bunker Hill he dreads,
Where he was flogg’d most plainly.
And to conclude my ditty,
’Tis only Britons ignorant,
That I most sincerely pity.
And General Gage, if they’re taken,
The Yankees will hang their heads up high,
On that fine hill, call’d Beacon.