Song VIII. Brother Jonathan

I WONDER what the racket means, A cutting of such capers; The Parson says the French are mad, He read it in the papers,

Heigh bo! Billy Bow, I b'lieve the War's a coming: 'N' if it does, I'll get a gun, Soon's I hear them drumming.

He says as how they steal our ships, Wherever they can get 'em; But fags, if I were one o' the folke, I guess I'd shoot and hit 'em.

An' father says, they told him poz, When he was down to Boston, They took a swingin sight of goods; Now I forgot the cost ont.

I think it's darned wrong, be sure, Because we us'd 'em clever; An' uncle vums a sailor works Much harder than a weaver.

But rot 'em all, if that's their cut, Mayhap they'll come to mob us; An' so we'd better drive 'em off, Before an' they can grab us.

An' Debby talks, if I will go, She'll wait a year to marry; Tho' I'm afraid to stay so long, For fear of that there Harry.

An' I heard 'em say, a training day, That Washington's a going; An' Capen Toby sweare they'll fall Like grass when he's a mowing

He said, that once in t'other wars, He run right at the bullets; An' never minded grenadiers No more than we do pullers.

But, deuce, I'd rather stay at home A making wall an' haying; An' so had Capen too, I guess, But I 'spose there'll be no staying!