As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne. George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29 the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey across the mountains.
THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN
[May 29, 1755]
To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!
Hark, how the drums do roll it along!
To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;
We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.
Let not your courage fail you;
Be valiant, stout and bold;
And it will soon avail you,
My loyal hearts of gold.
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;
The battle is begun as you may fairly see.
Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;
We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.
A squadron now appears, my boys;
If that they do but stand!
Boys, never fear, be sure you mind
The word of command!
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
See how, see how, they break and fly before us!
See how they are scattered all over the plain!
Now, now—now, now our country will adore us!
In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!
Then laurels shall our glory crown
For all our actions told:
The hills shall echo all around,
My loyal hearts of gold.
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men, reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and, on the following morning, with colors flying and drums beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under Contrecœur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire, spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush. The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion, but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.
BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE
[July 9, 1755]
Come all ye sons of Brittany,
Assist my muse in tragedy,
And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,
And spend a mournful day,
Upon Monongahela fields,
The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;
And British blood bedews the hills
Of western Gilboa.
July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,
They had a bold and bloody fray,
Our host was smote with a dismay;
Some basely did retire,
And left brave Braddock in the field,
Who had much rather die than yield,
A while his sword he bravely wield
In clouds of smoke and fire.
Some time he bravely stood his ground,
A thousand foes did him surround,
Till he received a mortal wound,
Which forc'd him to retreat.
He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,
As he was home-ward on his way;
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Alas! alas! we all must say,
A sore and sad defeat.
Now to his grave this hero's borne,
While savage foes triumph and scorn,
And drooping banners dress his urn,
And guard him to his tomb.
Heralds and monarchs of the dead,
You that so many worms have fed,
He's coming to your chilly bed,
Edge close and give him room.
HIS EPITAPH
Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,
Who always hated cowardice,
But fell a savage sacrifice
Amidst his Indian foes.
I charge you, heroes, of the ground,
To guard his dark pavilion round,
And keep off all obtruding sound,
And cherish his repose.
Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,
Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand
And to resign thy great command,
And cancel thy commission.
Altho' thou didst not much incline
Thy post and honors to resign;
Now iron slumber doth confine;
None envy's thy condition.
A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE
Return my muse unto the field,
See what a prospect it doth yield;
Ingrateful to the eyes and smell
A carnage bath'd in gore,
Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,
While sanguine rivers fill the dales,
And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,
The like ne'er here before.
And must these sons of Brittany
Be clouded, set in western skies,
And fall a savage sacrifice?
Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!
My blood boils high in every vein,
To climb the mountains of the slain,
And break the iron jaws in twain,
Of savage Gallic power.
Our children with their mothers die,
While they aloud for mercy cry;
They kill, and scalp them instantly,
Then fly into the woods,
And make a mock of all their cries,
And bring their scalps a sacrifice
To their infernal deities,
And praise their demon gods.
Revenge, revenge the harmless blood
Which their inhuman dogs have shed
In every frontier neighborhood,
For near these hundred years.
Their murdering clan in ambush lies,
To kill and scalp them by surprize,
And free from tender parents' eyes
Ten hundred thousand tears.
Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks
Have so enraged old sixty-six,
With legs and arms like withered sticks,
And youthful vigor gone;
That if he lives another year,
Complete in armor he'll appear,
And laugh at death and scoff at fear,
To right his country's wrong.
Let young and old, both high and low,
Arm well against this savage foe,
Who all around inviron us so,
The sons of black delusion.
New England's sons you know their way,
And how to cross them in their play,
And drive these murdering dogs away,
Unto their last confusion.
One bold effort, oh, let us make,
And at one blow behead the snake,
And then these savage powers will break,
Which long have us oppress'd.
And this, brave soldiers, will we do
If Heaven and George shall say so too;
And if we drive the matter thro',
The land will be at rest.
Come every soldier charge your gun,
And let your task be killing one;
Take aim until the work is done;
Don't throw away your fire,
For he that fires without an aim,
May kill his friend and be to blame,
And in the end come off with shame,
When forced to retire.
O mother land, we think we're sure,
Sufficient is thy marine powers
To dissipate all eastern showers:
And if our arms be blest,
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Thy sons in North America
Will drive these hell-born dogs away
As far beyond the realms of day,
As east is from the west.
Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,
Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,
It is too high and much too strong,
The learned won't allow.
Much honor should accrue to him
Who ne'er was at their Academ
Come blot out every telesem;
Get home unto thy plow.
Stephen Tilden.
Composed August 20, 1755.
Nuff Said
agtG
