Let those who will, be proud and sneer
And call you an unwelcome peer,
But I am glad to see you here:
The prince that fills the British throne,
Unless successful, honours none;
Poor Jack Burgoyne!— you're not alone.
Thy ships, De Grasse, have caused my grief —
To rebel shores and their relief
There never came a luckier chief:
In fame's black page it shall be read,
By Gallic arms my soldiers bled —
The rebels thine in triumph led.
Our fortunes different forms assume,
I called and called for elbow-room,
Till Gates discharged me to my doom;
But you, that conquered far and wide,
In little York thought fit to hide,
The subject ocean at your side.
And yet no force had gained that post —
Not Washington, his country's boast,
Nor Rochambeau, with all his host,
Nor all the Gallic fleet's parade —
Had Clinton hurried to my aid,
And Sammy Graves been not afraid.
For head knocked off, or broken bones,
Or mangled corpse, no price atones;
Nor all that prattling rumour says,
Nor all the piles that art can raise,
The poet's or the parson's praise.
Though I am brave, as well as you,
Yet still I think your notion true;
Dear brother Jack, our toils are o'er —
With foreign conquests plagued no more,
We'll stay and guard our native shore.