Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ABOUT SAVANNAH, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ABOUT SAVANNAH, by                    
First Line: Come let us rejoice
Last Line: "huzza for the king and prevost, sir"
Subject(s): "american Revolution;estaing, Jean Baptiste De (1729-1794);navy - France;prevost, Augustine;savannah, Georgia;" French Navy


COME let us rejoice,
With heart and with voice,
Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,
While bumpers go round,
Reecho the sound,
Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

With warlike parade,
And his Irish brigade,
His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,
As proud as an elf,
D'Estaing came himself,
And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

There joining a band
Under Lincoln's command,
Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,
'Gainst the town of Savannah
He planted his banner,
And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

With thund'ring of guns,
And bursting of bombs,
He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:
But amidst all their din,
Brave Maitland push'd in,
And Moncrieffe cried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

Chagrined at delay,
As he meant not to stay,
The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.
Van, centre, and rear
March'd up without fear,
Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

Though rude was the shock,
Unmov'd as a rock,
Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,
While the brave German corps,
And Americans bore
Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

Then muskets did rattle,
Fierce raged the battle,
Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.
The ditch fill'd with slain,
Blood dyed all the plain,
When rebels and French turned tail, sir.

See! see! how they run!
Lord! what glorious fun!
How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!
Brains fly all around,
Dying screeches resound,
And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

There Pulaski fell,
That imp of old Bell,
Who attempted to murder his king, sir.
But now he is gone
Whence he'll never return;
But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

To Charleston with fear
The rebels repair;
D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,
Each blaming the other,
Each cursing his brother,
And -- may they cut each other's throats, sir.

Scarce three thousand men
The town did maintain,
'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,
Who left on the plain,
Of wounded and slain,
Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

Three thousand! no less!
For the rebels confess
Some loss, as you very well know, sir.
Then let bumpers go round,
And reecho the sound,
Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.





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