Burgoyne, John (1722-1792) Burgoyne's Lamentations. [Sarcastic pro-American poem re: defeat at Saratoga]

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GOOD heav'ns! how deep I'm plung'd in woe,
None knows not what I now undergo:
Britains assum'd a sovereign pow'r,
To crush their sons while in their pow'r.
One now was wanting bold and brave,
T' enforce her laws, her sons t'enslave,
To get a name, to gain applause,
I readily espoused her cause.
I undertook amidst the throng,
To head her army, right or rong,
Britain I left and cross'd the seas,
My Majesty and North to please,
I landed on Canada's shore,
The land and lake I then pass'd o'er;
I march'd along my banners spreas,
To strike the rebels all with dread.
I soon was master of Fort Ti----,
Like sheep they all before me fly;
My Indians shout, my cannons roar,
The land is stain'd with crimson gore.
All things are pleasing, all things bright,
The rebel's army dare not fight.
Tho sun in its meridian shone,
Although the day was now my own;
To Britain I despatch'd a part,
A joy was spread through all their court.
But oh, the change the sudden change--
Affairs now took a turn most strange:
The Hero GATES appears in sight,
His troops all cloth'd in armor bright.
They all as one their banners spread,

With Death or Vict'ry on their head,*
A sudden panic seiz'd my breath,
Now to retreat I thought 'twas best;
I gave the word and led the way,
My orders all as one obey.
In this percipitate retreat,
Our whole dependence was our fleet;
Like Jonas they have us deceiv'd,
Oh, that we'd never them believ'd,
We're running through a swampy ground,
The rebel army did us surround.
O! horrid place, O! dreadful gloom!
I mourn for want of elbow room.
My tawney soldiers from me fled,
Have now return'd to scalp my head,
I hear them whoop, I hear them yell,
I'm at the very Gates of hell.

O horror! I unhappy wretch,
Have took an unexpected streatch;
I'm here confin'd with nought to eat,
They've robb'd me of my bread and meat;
What I thought was always free,
But that is now deny'd to me.
Oh, that my Royal Master knew,
How I am trapped by this crew,
She, lion-like of whelps bereav'd,
Would see us instantly reliev'd-
No, th' attempt would all be vain,
They fight like devils, not like men.
But who would ever have believ'd.
That I could then have been deceiv'd,
I thought five thousand men or less,
Through all these States might safely pass,
March boldly on one steady course,
The States all trembling at our force.
My error now I see too late,
Here I'm confin'd within this state;
Yes, in this little spot of ground,
Enclos'd by Yankees all around,
With this five-thousand- yes with ten,
And this Great-Britain; chosen man.
In Europe let it ne'r be known,
Nor publish it in Askelon,
Let the uncircumcis'd rejoice,
And distant nations joins their voice,
What will my friends in Britain say,
I wrote them I had gain'd the day,
I made them both rejoice and sing,
But now they'll strike a mournful string.
There they now strike one with surprise;
First I believ'd the Tory's lies,
What also brought me to this plight,
I thought the Yankees would not fight;
Thirdly, I'm most asham'd to say,
I fled so fast I miss'd my way,
How strange that I should take this route,
When I'm so swamp'd and hemm'd about,
The devil himself would ne'er get out.
Alas! I'm overborn with grief,
There's none appears for my relief.
Where are my titles and my fame,
I've lost my honor and my name.
At Bennington, STARK gave the wound,
Which like a gangor spread around,
O'er Saratoga's cursed ground.
Heart sickness seiz'd the camp so fast,
All courage fail'd, and then at last,
ARNOLD and LINCOLN gave the blow,
That prov'd our final overthrow.
The like I never saw before,
He threaten'd death to every one,
That dar'd to fire another gun.
The Hessians, thunderstruck, turn'd pale,
The stupid asses' hearts now fail.
Thus seiz'd with trembling and dismay,
Their new commander they obey.
The panic spread from breast to breast,
And I was struck among the rest-
Language now fails, it cant express,
The amazing horror and distress.
Cannon like claps of thunder roar,
Their balls like hail upon us pour;
Flashes of fire around us blaze,
The sun now casts his feeble rays,
Volumes of smoke o'ercloud the skies,
And scenes of blood shut up our eyes.
What shall I say, what shall I do,
My council now of war is held,
They all as one agree to yield,
Their colors strike - to GATES they bow,
Lay down their arms - and off they go.
As they begin to march on soon,
The concourse all agree,
To sound the Yankee doodle tune,
Upon the highest key.
Musicians all of various kinds,
With utmost skill now play,
To raise the prisoner's drooping minds,
And demons drive away.
Such charms of music ne'er before,
Were heard within our land,
But all their skill they now give o'er,
For want of David's hand.
OCTOBER, 1777.