On The British Blockade

And Expected Attack on New York, 1814

Old Neversink,[A] with bonnet blue, The present times may surely rue When told what England means to do:

[A] The highlands, a little southward of Sandy Hook; being a tract of bold high country, several thousand acres in extent; to the southward of which there is no land that may be termed mountainous, on the whole coast of the United States to Cape Florida. The real aboriginal name of this remarkable promontory was Navesink, since corrupted into Neversink.--Freneau's note.

Where from the deep his head he rears The din of war salutes his ears, That teazed him not for thirty years.

He eastward looks toward the main To see a noisy naval train Invest his bay, our fleets detain.

What can be done in such a case?-- His rugged heights the blast must face, The storm that menaces the place.

With tents I see his mountain spread, The soldier to the summit led, And cannon planted on his head:

From Shrewsbury beach to Sandy Hook The country has a martial look, And quakers skulk in every nook.--

What shall be done in such a case?-- We ask again with woful face To save the trade and guard the place?

Where mounted guns the porte secure, The cannon at the embrasure, Will british fleets attempt to moor?

Perhaps they may--and make a dash, To fill their pockets with our cash-- Their dealings now are rather harsh.

They menace to assail the coast With such a fleet and such a host As may devour us--boil'd or roast.

Their feelings are alive and sore For what they got at Baltimore, When, with disgrace, they left the shore,

And will revenge it, if they can, On town and country, maid and man-- And all they fear is Fulton's plan;

Torpedoes planted in the deep, Whose blast may put them all to sleep, Or ghostify them at a sweep.

Another scheme, entirely new, Is hammering on his anvil too, That frightens christian, turk, and jew.

A frigate,[B] mounting thirty six!-- Who'er with her a quarrel picks Will little get but cuffs and kicks:

[B] The steam frigate Fulton the First: Qui me percellit morti debetur--who strikes at me to death is doomed!--Freneau's note.

A frigate meant to sail by steam!-- How can she else but torture them, Be proof to all their fire and flame.

A feast she cooks for England's sons Of scalded heads and broken bones Discharged from iron hearted guns.

Black Sam[C] himself, before he died, Such suppers never did provide;-- Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd.

[C] A character well known in New York several years since, remarkable for elegance and luxurious refinements in the art of cookery.--idem.

To make a brief of all I said-- If to attack they change blockade Their godships will be well repaid

With water, scalding from the pot, With melted lead and flaming shot, With vollies of--I know not what,

The british lads will be so treated: Their wooden walls will be so heated, Their ruin will be soon completed.

Our citizens shall stare and wonder-- The Neversink repel their thunder And Cockburn miss a handsome plunder.