Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Hail, Congress, hail! magnificent, renown'd:
Rejoice, be merry; the lost Sheep is found!
You, Congress, knew him by his graceful bleat.
We only know him by his foul defeat.
Great Bell Wether, he led his scabby flock
In apt conjunction with the rebel stock.
He came, he push'd, he fled with half his train;
While sav'd Savannah swell'd with heaps of slain.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
What awful silence thro' the land prevail'd
Since Count D'Estaing from St. Domingo sail'd.
No voice, no breath, no sound, no rumour flew,
Lest Parker should with all his fleet pursue.
No whisper; no report — but all was mum,
Lest reinforcements from New York should come.
To catch the British napping was their thought:
Now, by my faith, a Tartar have they caught.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
The French, entangled in a dreadful scrape,
From the West-Indies made a fine escape.
Arriv'd upon the coast, the scene was chang'd:
Uncivil Winds their armament derang'd;
Their first reception was exceeding rough;
Howe'er they landed: landed sure enough.
Ashore, they vapour and defy the Storm,
And soon with Lincoln's troops a junction form.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Plunder's the Word; but Plunder soon is o'er.
Rob folks of all, and you can rob no more.
Live stock or dead, they capture and condemn:
Come Whig, come Tory, 'tis the same to them.
The Continental gentry stand aghast
To see their good Allies devour so fast.
Are these the Troops of Louis, Friend of Men?
They're rather Tygers, loosen'd from a Den.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
The sworn confederates manfully advance
In quest of Glory and the Good of France.
Go summon, Trumpeter, yon haughty Town:
Bid them surrender to the Gallic Crown.
What, are they restiff? — scorn they to obey?
Peste — we'll compel them with what speed we may.

Erect your batteries, Engineers, in haste:
Mortars and Cannons in the Works be plac'd.
Upon the right my valiant French shall load;
You Continentals, line th' Augusta road.
Moncrieffe seems active, but he'll soon be sick,
When shells and balls and bullets rattle thick.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
The brave D'Estaing encourages his troops,
And promises good store of drams and soups.
Work on, work on, ye jolly Pioneers.
The town shall soon be knock'd about their ears.
Meantime, strict guard about the camp we'll keep,
And neither in nor out a mouse shall creep.
But whence arises, in the dead of night,
This horrid noise to fill us with affright?
Are all the devils got loose? — D'Estaing cries out.
— No, sir, 'tis Maitland puts us to the rout.
Stop him this instant! — Sir, he won't be stopt.
Chop him — En verite , ourselves are chopt.
The town he shall not enter, I declare,
— True, noble Count, for he's already there.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
The Gallic Chief, his batteries complete,
Conceives the British humbled at his feet.
Full thirty cannons, mortars half a score;
No doubt Prevost must tremble at their roar.
They open, and proclaim Savannah's doom;
Hide day with smoke, with flashes night illume.
Now whistle through the air the pond'rous plumbs;
Now mount aloft, and now descend the bombs.
Incessant thunders rend the frighted sky,
And bluffs and hillocks to the sound reply.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
What great effect has all this fire produc'd?
Here falls an house, and there a turf is loos'd.
What, no slain warriors tumbled in the trench?
Yes, by the Mass: — abundance of the French!
No cannon yet dismounted can you see?
Oh yes — a number marked with Fleurs de Lys.
Where are the Yankees? — where they were at first.
What have we got then? — we have got the worst.
How can this be? Six days, and nothing done!
The case is plain — the foe gives three for one.
Our thirty cannon have no chance at all,
Moncrieffe salutes with ninety from the wall.
Pize on't — this way of siege is most absurd:
We'll have no more on't — Storm shall be the word!

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
The Veterans of France have form'd the line,
Expecting daybreak and the promis'd sign.
The Rebel Bands are marshall'd in array,
Boastful and loud, and covetous of prey.
What held the Town of beauty, wealth, and power,
Was all devoted in that cruel hour.
Sore sigh'd the Mother, for her Babes afraid;
And, anxious for herself, the blooming Maid.
The Merchant trembled for his crouded store:
One dreadful pause — and all perhaps is gore!
So to the rock Andromeda lay bound,
When rose the Monster from the vast profound:
But soon her brave Deliverer fac'd the foe;
No matter whether Perseus or Prevost .
His winged courser gallant he bestrode;
He look'd a Hero, and he mov'd a God!
He met the Monster in his fierce attack,
And to old Ocean headlong drove him back.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Lo! from the Artillery pours the grand salute:
Then Silence flows — and all is hush'd and mute.
Sudden the drum rebellows; swells the fife;
And all move forward to the mortal strife.
The shouting warriors and the trumpets shrill
The meanest heart with martial ardour fill.
With rapid march advance the hostile rows,
While British fire the ranks tremendous mows.
Now nearer still and nearer they engage,
And War puts on accumulated rage.
There is the din of battle; there the crash;
The roaring volley, and the frequent flash.
There animation in the front appears:
There charge the chosen Gallic Grenadiers.
There, where each moment death they take or give,
Scarce Immortality herself could live!

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Now Slaughter triumphed and resistless strow'd
With mangled carcasses the reeking road.
Ev'n then, when blood was streaming like a fount,
Polaski rush'd the strong Redoubt to mount.
Again the grape-shot thunders from the walls:
He falls — half hero, half a fiend, he falls.
Off from the field his soldiers bear their chief;
Art was invok'd, but Art gave no relief;
Deep in his groin was fix'd the deadly wound.
Worthless, tho' brave, a glorious fate he found.
Such noble death what right had he to hope,
Whose odius Treason merited a Rope?
Undaunted minds were made in verse to shine?
But hate to parricides blots out the line.
Not Valour's self the Traitor can excuse:
Him Truth condemns: him execrates the Muse.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Such desperate efforts the battalions thin.
Disorder and dismay and rout begin.
The worn brigades from fight recoiling swerve;
Their courage droops, they faint in every nerve.
Yet still remains an excellent resource —
Bring to the charge the Continental Force.
What ails these Braggadocios of the Land?
Won't they come forward? — stiff as Posts they stand,
Strange petrifaction on their host attends.
Deuce take the fools, they level at their friends!
Some angry Demon sure their sense misleads;
See, the French tremble, and their General bleeds.
By rebel hands (Lo! Providence is just)
The rebels' patron wounded bites the dust.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
'Tis done: Confusion sits on every face;
Inevitable ruin; foul disgrace.
Now Terror domineers, and wild Affright:
No hope in Arms: no safety but in Flight.
Now, Britons, Hessians and Provincials pour:
Arrest the fugitives and bathe in gore.
'Tis done: — D'Estaing betakes him to his ship;
To Charlestown Yankies thro' the forests slip.
Go reckon up thy loss, amphibious Count;
Mark Fifteen Hundred to the full amount:
Of wounded and of killed an equal train
Left Lincoln weltering on the bloody plain:
Whilst forty Britons on the list appear.
O Earth confess , the Hand of Heaven was here!

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Does Lordly Congress relish this defeat —
Say, is it pleasant to their souls and sweet?
What, both o'erthrown, America and France,
By one small splinter of the British Lance!
Yet these were they, gigantic in their boast,
Who swore to chase us from this Western Coast:
Yet these were they who built flat-bottomed boats,
And vow'd to drive us like a Flock of Goats.
Unstable as the sand, their arts shall fail:
As water weak, they never shall prevail.
These, Reuben-like, their parent's couch defile;
Like Judas, these shall perish in their guile.
Could the Sword spare them, yet of Heaven accurst
Their very Bowels would asunder burst.

Let songs of triumph every voice employ,
And every Muse discharge a feu de joie!
Ye poor deluded owners of the soil,
For others' good who labour and who toil —
Ye wretches doom'd to sorrowful mistake,
Who hunger and who thirst for Congress' sake —
Arouse for Shame: like Men your rights resume,
And send your Tyrants to the Land of Gloom.
If Shame prevail not, still let Wisdom plead.
If both are slighted, Vengeance must succeed.

Your Parent State grows stronger every hour;
As yet, its Mercy far exceeds its Power.
Your Congress every moment weaker grows.
Rags are its Treasure: Honest Men its Foes.
Its Building cracks, tho' buttress'd by the Gaul:
It nods, it shakes, it totters to its fall.
O save yourselves before it is too late!
O save your Country from impending Fate!
Leave those, whom Justice must at length destroy.
Repent, come over, and partake our joy.