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THE LETTER. |
373 |
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It was not my lot, To go then to pot, But I veow, I was struck with amaze.
And Ned, may I die,
Or be pok'd in a sty, If ever I venture again
Where bullets do fly,
And the wounded do cry Tormented with anguish and pain.
The Hope, I can tell,3
And the brig Constance fell, I swear, and I veow, in our sight;
The first I can say,
Was taken by day, But the latter was taken at night.
I die to relate
What has been our fate,4 How sadly our navies are shrunk;
The pride of our State,
Begins to abate, For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk. |
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