Classic Poem

The Tories are embarking for the Province by the Sea,
They have left their homes on Broadway and beside the Battery,
The mansions are deserted that o'erlook the Bowling Green,
And in the highways to the wharves unwonted sights are seen.

First, matrons fair with powdered hair and haughty looks go by,
Then gentle maids, whose colour shames the rose-tints in the sky,
Then fine Colonial gentlemen, and boys of manly grace,—
But sorrow unmistakeable appears in every face.

There are Barclays and De Lanceys, there are Purdys, half a score,
There are Livingstons and Ludlows, Bayards, Thornes, and many more,
There are Rapaljes and Remsens, Wilmots, Wigginses, and Wards,—
Judges, councillors, and farmers, doctors, lawyers, priests, and bards.

They are pressing to the water on the city's eastern side,
They are stepping up the planks that reach the ships that there are tied,
They are waving to their friends on shore most piteous farewells,
They are weeping in their cabins as weep prisoners in their cells.

The guns of war are silent that have boomed for seven years,
The British have been routed, and there seems no cause for tears,
But the Barclays and De Lanceys are as sad as sad can be,
And their ships are in the harbour for the Province by the Sea.

Is it prejudice that sways them, are they blind to all the wrong
Their compatriots have suffered from the English rule so long?
Is it cowardly submissiveness that makes these Tories hate
The newly formed Republic and its officers of state?

Are the Ludlows and the Robinsons so sunk in selfishness
That they have no souls to sympathize with common men's distress;
Are they willing that the people should be slaves the country o'er
If their own exclusive privilege is only kept secure?

There is surely something better back of protest such as theirs,
There is good stout-hearted loyalty below such tears and prayers,
They have loved the flag of England and the throne so firm and strong,
Though they know King George is narrow and his ministers are wrong

And they cannot give allegiance to a governmental plan
Which concedes the right of sovereign to the very lowest man,
That makes friends with all fanatics who shout loud for liberty,
But has no meed for Loyalists but shame and obloquy.

So the Tories are embarking, such a sad, distressful band,
On the rugged shore of Shelburne, in the old Acadian land,
They will build another city and contented try to be,
Though they love their homes on Broadway and beside the Battery.

There the spirit of rebellion will not show its hateful head,
There to English institutions people always will be wed,
There, though present ills may irritate, men's hearts will never lag
In loyal love for England and devotion to her flag.

But that rugged shore of Shelburne will be mournful many a day
With the sighing of the pilgrims who are sailing fast away
From the homes their love has fashioned, from the church their faith has reared,
And the churchyard by a thousand hallowed memories endeared.

Though the skies that overarch them have the same delightful blue,
Though the friends they value highest like themselves are exiles too,
Though good Inglis, who so stoutly for the King has always prayed,
Will be with them soon as Bishop, to help keep them undismayed,

They will mourn that England's children such hostility could show
To the mother who had reared them, and their spirits will sink low
At the world's degeneration, its distrust of all things old,
At the shallow views that skeptics in these later ages hold.

Yield them reverence, not dishonour, this once execrated band,
It was principle that made them give up their native land,
They loved their homes on Broadway, but they loved the old flag more,
And they chose the lot of exiles on a rugged foreign shore.

So the mansions are deserted that o'erlook the Bowling Green
And in Manhattan's thoroughfares the owners are not seen;
But in those streets and houses better men will never be
Than the Tories who have started for the Province by the Sea.