Your pardon first I crave
Your pardon first I crave for this intrusion.
The topic's such it looks like a delusion;
And next your candour, for I swear and vow,
Such an attempt I never made till now.
But constant laughing at the Desp'rate fate,
The bastard sons of Mars endur'd of late,
Induc'd me thus to minute down the notion,
Which put my risibles in such commotion.
By yankees frighted too! oh, dire to say!
Why yankees sure at red-coats faint away!
Oh, yes—They thought so too—for lack-a-day,
Their gen'ral turned the blockade to a play:
Poor vain poltroons—with justice we'll retort,
And call them blockheads for their idle sport.