Newport, now sunk in gabled brick,
Long led Christine in movements quick,
Behind New Castle's brews and stills,
And head port to the Pennish hills.

There came Far Downers, full of fight,
To tackle England's shallow might,
And halt upon the willow greens
King George's spies and go-betweens.

Flanked by the long Peninsula,
The Mainland like New England lay,
Where stretched Long Island level, far
Along the line of Northern war.

Yorktown within this crescent shone,
Where closed the strain on Washington,
And Howe went round this marshy line
To break our spine at Brandywine.

Firm in the hills above the neck
The Ulster men the Quakers check,
And close the entrance, like a door,
To flank us by the Eastern Shore.

These were the men of sleepless will
Who struck King James from Enniskill,
Grandsons of them that Penn forfends
Between the savage and the Friends.

And on this foreland none were seen
To think as far as Tom McKean —
Man of the hills, first to oppose
All England with his rock of nose.

He stood astride of Newport there
On Penn's firm land and Delaware,
And only Independence saw
For God's elect and People's law.

No passing grievance cold he fanned,
But was the King of Ireland,
Restoring, past the ocean's flow,
The crown of Swift and Molyneux.

Old Newport, may thy story close
In briar and perfume, like the rose;
As ope from thee the creeks of clay,
Red, White and stiff with life, alway.