ROGER. Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.

d.i.c.k. Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chase, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heels over head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother--but, with b.l.o.o.d.y breech, made the best of his way--nor ever stopped till they were got safe within their lurking-holes--

ROGER. From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.

d.i.c.k. May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep-stealers, it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves, so early in the season--but, hark!--Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove--Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.

ROGER. With all my heart.--Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolic, and chorus it o'er and o'er again--This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.

SONG.

[TUNE. _The hounds are all out, &c._]

1.

Of _St. George_, or _St. Bute_, let the poet Laureat sing, Of _Pharaoh_ or _Pluto_ of old, While he rhymes forth their praise, in false, flattering lays, I'll sing of St. Tamm'ny the bold, my brave boys.

2.

Let Hibernia's sons boast, make Patrick their toast; And Scots Andrew's fame spread abroad.

Potatoes and oats, and Welch leeks for Welch goats, Was never St. Tammany's food, my brave boys.

3.

In freedom's bright cause, Tamm'ny pled with applause, And reason'd most justly from nature; For this, this was his song, all, all the day long: Liberty's the right of each creature, brave boys.

4.

Whilst under an oak his great parliament sat, His throne was the crotch of the tree; With Solomon's look, without statutes or book, He wisely sent forth his decree, my brave boys.

5.

His subjects stood round, not the least noise or sound, Whilst freedom blaz'd full in each face: So plain were the laws, and each pleaded his cause; That might _Bute_, _North_ and _Mansfield_ disgrace, my brave boys.

6.

No duties, nor stamps, their blest liberty cramps, A king, tho' no _tyrant_, was he; He did oft'times declare, nay, sometimes wou'd swear, The least of his subjects were free, my brave boys.

7.

He, as king of the woods, of the rivers and floods, Had a right all beasts to controul; Yet, content with a few, to give nature her due: So gen'rous was Tammany's soul! my brave boys.

8.

In the morn he arose, and a-hunting he goes, Bold Nimrod his second was he.

For his breakfast he'd take a large venison steak, And despis'd your slip-slops and tea, my brave boys.

9.

While all in a row, with squaw, dog and bow, Vermilion adorning his face, With feathery head he rang'd the woods wide: _St. George_ sure had never such grace, my brave boys?

10.

His jetty black hair, such as Buckskin saints wear, Perfumed with bear's grease well smear'd, Which illum'd the saint's face, and ran down apace, Like the oil from Aaron's old beard, my brave boys.

11.

The strong nervous deer, with amazing career, In swiftness he'd fairly run down; And, like Sampson, wou'd tear wolf, lion or bear.

Ne'er was such a saint as our own, my brave boys.

12.

When he'd run down a stag, he behind him wou'd lag; For, so n.o.ble a soul had he!

He'd stop, tho' he lost it, tradition reports it, To give him fresh chance to get free, my brave boys.

13.

With a mighty strong arm, and a masculine bow, His arrow he drew to the head, And as sure as he shot, it was ever his lot, His prey it fell instantly dead, my brave boys.

14.

His table he spread where the venison bled, Be thankful, he used to say; He'd laugh and he'd sing, tho' a saint and a king, And sumptuously dine on his prey, my brave boys.

15.

Then over the hills, o'er the mountains and rills He'd caper, such was his delight; And ne'er in his days, Indian history says, Did lack a good supper at night, my brave boys.

16.

On an old stump he sat, without cap or hat.

When supper was ready to eat, _Snap_, his dog, he stood by, and cast a sheep's eye For ven'son, the king of all meat, my brave boys.

17.

Like Isaac of old, and both cast in one mould, Tho' a wigwam was Tamm'ny's cottage, He lov'd sav'ry meat, such that patriarchs eat, Of ven'son and squirrel made pottage, brave boys.

18.

When fourscore years old, as I've oft'times been told, To doubt it, sure, would not be right, With a pipe in his jaw, he'd buss his old squaw, And get a young saint ev'ry night, my brave boys.

19.

As old age came on, he grew blind, deaf and dumb, Tho' his sport, 'twere hard to keep from it, Quite tired of life, bid adieu to his wife, And blazed like the tail of a comet, brave boys.

20.

What country on earth, then, did ever give birth To such a magnanimous saint?

His acts far excel all that history tell, And language too feeble to paint, my brave boys.