Classic Poem

My lords, with your leave,
An account I will give,
Which deserves to be written in metre;
How the rebels and I
Have been pretty nigh,
Faith, 't was almost too nigh for Sir Peter!

De'il take 'em! their shot
Came so swift and so hot,
And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,
That I put ship about
And was glad to get out,
Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.

With much labor and toil
Unto Sullivan's Isle,
I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;
But the Yankees, od rat 'em —
I could not get at 'em,
They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.

Behold, Clinton, by land,
Did quietly stand,
While I made a thundering clatter;
But the channel was deep,
So he only could peep,
And not venture over the water.

Now, bold as a Turk,
I proceeded to York,
Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:
I've the wind in my tail,
And am hoisting my sail,
To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.

But, my lords, do not fear,
For, before the next year,
Although a small island should fret us,
The continent, whole,
We will take, by my soul,
If the cowardly Yankees will let us.