Chorus-Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle, dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.

And there we see a thousand men,
As rich as 'Squire David;
And what they wasted every day,
I wish it could be saved.

The 'lasses they eat every day,

Would keep an house a winter;
They have as much that, I'll be bound,
They eat it when they're a mind to.
And there we see a swamping gun,
Large as a log of maple,
Upon a deuced little cart,

A load for father's cattle.

And every time they shoot it off,
It takes a horn of powder,

And makes a noise like father's gun,
Only a nation louder.

I went as nigh to one myself,
As Siah's underpinning;
And father went as nigh again,
I thought the deuce was in him.
Cousin Simon grew so bold,

I thought he would have cock'd it;
It scar'd me so, I shrink'd it off,
And hung by father's pocket.
And Captain Davis had a gun,

He kind of clapt his hand on't,
And stuck a crooked stabbing iron
Upon the little end on't.

And there I see a pumpkin shell
As big as mother's bason;
And every time they touch'd it off,
They scamper'd like the nation.

I see a little barrel too,

The heads were made of leather,
They knock'd upon't with little clubs,
And call'd the folks together.
And there was Captain Washington,*
And gentlefolks about him,
They say he's grown so tarnal proud,
He will not ride without 'em.

He got him on his meeting clothes,
Upon a slapping stallion,

He set the world along in rows,
In hundreds and in millions.

There was Captain Washington,
Upon a slapping stallion,

A giving orders to his men-
I guess there was a million.
And then the feathers on his hat,
They look'd so tarnal fina,

I wanted pockily to get

To give to my Jemima.

And there they'd fife away like fun,
And play on cornstalk fiddles,
And some had ribbons red as blood,
All wound about their middles.
The troopers, too, would gallop up,
And fire right in our faces;
It scar'd me almost half to death,
To see them run such races.

Old Uncle Sam come there to change
Some pancakes and some onions,
For lasses-cakes, to carry home

To give his wife and young ones. But I can't tell you half I see,

They kept up such a smother; So I took my hat off, made a bow, And scamper'd home to mother.

The flaming ribbons in his hat,
They look'd so taring fine ah,
I wanted pockily to get,

To give to my Jemimah.

I see another snarl of men

A digging graves, they told me, So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,

They 'tended they should hold me. It scar'd me so, I hook'd it off, Nor stop'd, as I remember, Nor turn'd about, 'till I got home, Lock'd up in mother's chamber.

WILLIAM CHARLES WELLS.

THE pleasant and confiding autobiography prefixed to the volume of Miscellanies by Dr. Wells, informs us that he was born at Charleston, S. C., in May, 1757. His father and mother were both of Scottish birth, and emigrated to the colony in 1753. By way of preventive to the "disloyal principles which began, immediately after the peace of 1763, to prevail throughout America," his father arrayed the boy in "a tartan coat, and a blue Scotch bonnet; hoping by these means to make him consider himself a Scotchman." A more efficacious course to the desired result, was the removal of the son to Scotland, where he was placed at Dumfries school, in his tenth year. In 1779 he was removed to Edinburgh, and attended several of the lower classes in the University. The next year he returned to Carolina, and remained quietly studying medicine as an apprentice to Dr. Alexander Garden, until "the American rebellion first broke out in New England." Upon this his father, the printer of a newspaper, and an unflinching Royalist, left for England, and was followed three months after by the son.

From 1775 to 1778 he was employed in the study of his profession at Edinburgh. At the end of that time he obtained the position of a surgeon in a Scotch regiment in the service of Holland. He had not been long in that country before feeling himself aggrieved by the acts of his commanding officer, who twice imprisoned him, he resigned his commission, and the same day challenged his late superior. The opponent immediately arrested him, and transmitted a complaint of insubordination to the higher powers. The circumstances of the resignation of his commission being made known, he was at once set at liberty.

In 1780, "Carolina having been conquered by the king's troops,” he returned to Charleston to settle his father's business, which had been greatly injured by the war. While thus occupied he wrote an article directed against Americans, who, on being released on parole by the British, took up arms against the mother country. The article was ordered to be frequently printed in the newspapers by the British commander, and its author"thinks it highly probable, that it was owing to this warning, that General Balfour and Lord Moira thought themselves justified in putting to death a Colonel Hayne," one of the most memorable acts of the southern campaigns.

On the evacuation of Charleston in 1782, Wells removed to East Florida. Here he remained until the preliminaries of peace having been signed, he returned, at his father's request, to

Charleston, under the protection of a flag of truce. On his arrival he was arrested "upon a private suit, growing out of a transaction of his brother's." He refused to give bail, on the ground that doing so would be an admission of the invalidity of the flag as a means of protection against arrest, and was imprisoned. He applied

to the English commander in Florida for relief, who after a delay of two months demanded his release. The affair was finally settled by the payment of the claim on which he was arrested, and he immediately after returned to Florida. He was shipwrecked off St. Augustine, but none of the ship's company were lost or injured. In May, 1784, he returned to England, and about midsummer, 1785, "had the name of Dr. Wells affixed to the door" of his lodging. He "passed several years almost without taking a single fee,” but at last received some aid in the shape of an appointment as one of the physicians to the Finsbury Dispensary, with a salary of £50 a year. It was ten years before his income from every source amounted to £250.

During this period he published in 1792, An Essay on Vision; in 1795, a paper in the Philosophical Transactions, on the Influence which incites the muscles of animals to contract, in Mr. Galvani's experiments; in 1797, Experiments on the Colour of the Blood; and in 1811, Experiments and Observations on Vision.

In 1800 he was attacked with a slight fit of apoplexy, the recurrence of which he warded off, as he supposes, by the adoption of vegetable diet.

In 1812 he commenced some researches on the subject of Dew. Night exposure, and labor in autumn in this matter, brought on an attack of illness, which his medical friends anticipated would cause his death in a few months. Upon receiving this intelligence, he immediately set about preparing his paper on Dew for publication, as his scattered memoranda would have been of no service to the world after his death. His philanthropic endeavors secured his fame and perhaps his life, for he recovered from his dangerous disease.

It

His Essay was published in August, 1814. at once established the author in the high position as a scientific writer which he has since maintained, the work having been recently cited by Lyell, in his lectures in this country, as the best authority on its subject. Its style, like that of his other philosophical writings, is marked by its ease and simplicity.

The restoration to health was but a temporary respite from the attacks of disease to which the closing years of his life were subjected. "His autobiography was dictated by him at intervals," says the editor of his works, "during his illness, after he had lost all hope of recovery, and while he was uncertain whether he should live to finish it, and when he was too feeble to speak long, or to write much." It must be considered a proof of extraordinary composure and vigor of mind in such circumstances. The closing sentence is dated August 28, 1817, and a brief note informs us that their author died on the evening of the 18th of September following.

Dr. Wells's writings, with the exception of a few brief biographical sketches, were all on medical and scientific topics. A volume of his works, VOL. I.-30

Containing Essays on Vision and Dew, was published in London in 1816.

ROBERT DINSMOOR.

IN 1828 was published at Haverhill, Mass., a volume entitled, Incidental Poems, accompanied with Letters, and a few select Pieces, mostly original, for their illustration, together with a Preface and Sketch of the Author's Life, by Robert Dinsmoor, the "Rustic Bard." This was a writer of originality, who penned verses in the Scottish dialect and good Saxon English on occasional topics, arising from personal incidents, the correspondence of his friends, or his own emotions. What he found worth living for he considered good enough to write about, and set it down with skill and simplicity. He belonged to a family of Scotch Presbyterians, who had settled in the north of Ireland, and had emigrated to America at the beginning of the eighteenth century. He was born at Windham in New Hampshire, October 7, 1757. His father (something of a rhymer too in his day) was a soldier in the old French war. The son followed the example, and at twenty was at the battle of Saratoga. Returning he became a farmer at Windham, and a zealous Presbyterian, passing his long life among the staunch old settlers of Londonderry.* The bard's early education was of the scantiest, picked up at the village school from Master Sauce, an old British soldier, and a Master McKeen, a man of profound erudition, but very dilatory in attending, who if he took in hand to catch a squirrel by the way, would do it if it took him half the forenoon," from whom he learned reading and writing. His poetry seems to have come by nature and the reading of Robert Burns. It had its sentiment and its Doric humor, which did not disdain very homely realities, as in the account of his illness, of which the reader will be satisfied on the production of a single stanza :—

With senna, salts, and castor oil,

They drench'd me every little while; The strong disease such power could foil, To yield full loth,

At length we found the foe recoil,

At the hot-bath.

Rott Dinfmoor

Whittier has described his old age in a genial picture of the man and his writings :—' "The last time I saw him he was chaffering in the marketplace of my native village (Haverhill), swapping potatoes, and onions, and pumpkins, for tea, coffee, molasses, and, if the truth be told, New England rum. Three-score years and ten, to use his own words

Hung o'er his back,
And bent him like a muckle pack.

Yet he still stood stoutly and sturdily in his thick shoes of cowhide, like one accustomed to tread

For some interesting memorials of this settlement, The History of Londonderry, by the Rev. Edward L. Parker, published in Boston in 1851, may be consulted.

+ Life of the Author, written by himself, in a letter to Silas Betton, Esq., of Salem, N. H.

independently the soil of his own acres-his broad, honest face, seamed by care, and darkened by exposure to all the airts that blow,' and his white hair flowing in patriarchal glory beneath his felt hat. A genial, jovial, large-hearted old man, simple as a child, and betraying, neither in look nor manner, that he was accustomed to

Feed on thoughts which voluntary move
Harmonious numbers

"Peace to him. In the ancient burial-ground of Windham, by the side of his beloved Molly,' and in view of the old meeting-house, there is a mound of earth, where, every spring, green grasses tremble in the wind, and the warm sunshine calls out the flowers. There, gathered like one of his own ripe sheaves, the farmer-poet sleeps with his fathers."*

SKIP'S LAST ADVICE.

Written in the seventeenth year of the author's age on his father's favorite old dog, who had survived his 15th year. It was sent with the following note to William Dinsmoor, the bard's uncle, who had requested a copy of it.

At your request, kind sir, I send it,
Skip's last advice-I long since penn'd it.

In honor to his name.

He was a dog of noble spirit,
Possessing talents, worth, and merit,

And died in honest fame.

The rational creation may

Learn wisdom from the brute-
Profound instruction they convey,
Sometimes in language mute.
Take heed thou, and read thou
This moral from my page,
And see now, with me now,
A base degenerate age.

Introduction.

This poor auld dog liv'd mony a year,
But now he did begin to fear

That death about the doors was creepin',
To whip him off when he was sleepin';
For now he was baith deaf an' dumb,
An' cou'dua hear when death wad come.
When he was young, baith spry an' nimble,
The fear o' beasts ne'er made him tremble;
He try'd to keep the corn frae bears,
An' help'd us aye to sing our prayers;
But now his teeth were a' worn out,
An' him grown weak instead of stout,
He cou'dna sing he was sae weak,
An' I took pity for his sake.
He turn'd his een to me inviting,
An' sign'd to me to do his writing;

I took the hint, an' gat my pen,
But what to write I knew not then.
I by acquaintance knew him well,
An' by his looks his thoughts could tell,
What he advis'd, I to befriend 'im,

In Scottish rhyme have rightly penn'd 'em-
From those who want to hear these lines,
I crave th' attention o' their minds:-

Tent weel! for 'tis SKIP's last advice!
He warns ye a' now to be wise;
Take heed, for he'll no tell you't twice,
For now he's gawin'

To lea' the filthy fleas an' lice,

That us'd to gnaw 'im.

* Old Portraits and Modern Sketches, p. 808

After breakfast he lay down;
Quoth he, "I fear I shall die soon,
Because I canna sing my tune,
I us'd to sing,

Till a' the hills an' vallies round
Like bells wad ring.

Hear me a' sizes o' my kind,
Baith young an' auld, keep this in mind,
An' hearken to what I've design'd
Now to advise ye:

Be guid, an' they'll be hard to find,
That will despise ye.

Do a' you're able for your bluid,
And forward a' your masters' guid—
You ought to do 't since you're allow'd
To serve mankind;

The best that e'er on four feet stood,
This law shall find.

Let generations yet to breed,
Keep mind 'o this, when we are dead!
I'm gaun the gate alack wi' speed,
O' a' the earth!

Wow! but they're simpletons indeed
Wha live in mirth.

Don't you like those your guid time spend,
But aye think on your latter end;
If you've done ill, try to amend,

An' gi'e aye praise,

An' thank the Ane wha did you send Sae mony days.

Though like a lord man o'er

An' bang ye round wi' chairs an stools An' bruise ye wi' the auld pot buils, Mind not their powers

Their bodies maun gang to the mools,
As weel as ours.

Now ere I quat, I'll ask ye a',
If deacons this a fau't can ca','
An' for the same hoist me awa'
Unto the Session,

An' gar me satisfy their law'

For my transgression?
Gif ye say na then, I'll believ' it,
An' never let mysel' be griev't,
Nor o' my rest at night be reav't,
Nor be concern'd;
But say it is a lesson priev't,
Aye to be learn'd

I maun hae done, farewell, adieu!
Farewell to master Billy too,

I hae na breath to name enou;
Death's come to plunder-

He's taken me for ane I trow,
Sae I knock under."

II.

Farewell, yon mould'ring mansion, there, Where first I drew the natal air,

And learn'd to prate and play.
There rose a little filial band,
Beneath kind parents' fostering hand-
Their names let live for aye!

They taught their offspring there to real
And hymn their Maker's praise,
To say their catechism and creed,
And shun all vicious ways.
They careful and prayerful,
Their pious precepts press'd,
With ample example

Their children still were bless'd.

III.

Kind man! my guardian and my sire, Friend of the muse and poet's lyre,

With genuine wit and glee,
How sweetly did his numbers glide,
When all delighted by his side,

He read his verse to me!
The parallel was drawn between
The freedom we possess'd,

And where our fathers long had been
By lords and bishops press'd.
His rhyme then did chime then,
Like music through my heart;
Desiring, aspiring,

I strove to gain his art.

IV.

No more I'll tune the poet's lyre,
No more I'll ask the muses' fire,

To warm my chilling breast;
No more I'll feel the genial flame,
Nor seek a poet's deathless fame,
But silent sink to rest.

Farewell, the mount, call'd Jenny's Hill-
Ye stately oaks and pines!
Farewell, yon pretty purling rill,
Which from its brow deelines,
Meandering and wandering
The woodbines sweet among,
Where pleasure could measure
The bobylinkorn's song!

V.

On summer evenings, calm and bright,
O'er yonder summit's towering height,
With pleasure did I roam;
Perhaps to seek the robin's young,
Or the mavis' warbling tongue,
And bring the heifers home-
See from my foot, the night-hawk rise,
And leave her unfledged pair,
Then quick descending from the skies,
Like lightning cut the air.

The hares there, she scares there,
And through the pines they trip,
They're sought then, and caught then,
By my companion, Skip.

VI.

Andover's steeples there were seen,
While o'er the vast expanse between,
I did with wonder gaze;
There, as it were beneath my feet,
I view'd my father's pleasant seat-
My joy in younger days.

There Windham Range, in flowery vest,
Was seen in robes of green,
While Cobbet's Pond, from east to west,
Spread her bright waves between.
Cows lowing, cocks crowing,
While frogs on Cobbet's shore,

Lay croaking and mocking The bull's tremendous roar.

VII.

The fields no more their glories wear,
The forests now stand bleak and bare,
All of their foliage stript;

The rosy lawn, the flowery mead,
Where lambkins used to play and feed,
By icy fingers nipt.

No more I'll hear with ravish'd ears,
The music of the wood,

Sweet scenes of youth, now gone with years

Long pass'd beyond the flood.

Bereaved and grieved,

I solitary wail,

With sighing and crying,
My drooping spirits fail

VIII.

No more will I the Spring Brook trace,
No more with sorrow view the place
Where Mary's wash-tub stood,

No more I'll wander there alone,
And lean upon the mossy stone,
Where once she pil'd her wood.

"Twas there she bleached her linen cloth,
By yonder bass-wood tree;

From that sweet stream she made her broth,
Her pudding and her tea,

Whose rumbling and tumbling
O'er rocks with quick despatch,
Made ringing and singing,

None but her voice could match.

IX.

Farewell, sweet scenes of rural life,
My faithful friends and loving wife,
But transient blessings all.
Bereft of those, I sit and mourn;
The spring of life will ne'er return,
Chill death grasps great and small;
I fall before thee, God of truth!
O, hear my prayer and cry;
Let me enjoy immortal youth,
With saints above the sky.
Thy praise there, I'll raise there,
With all my heart and soul,
Where pleasure and treasure,
In boundless oceans roll.

THE SPARROW.*

Poor innocent and hapless Sparrow!
Why should my moul-board gie thee sorrow
This day thou'll chirp, an' mourn the morrow,
Wi' anxious breast-

The plough has turn'd the mould'ring furrow
Deep o'er thy nest.

Just in the middle o' the hill,

Thy nest was plac'd wi' curious skill;
There I espy'd thy little bill

Beneath the shade

In that sweet bower secure frae ill,
Thine eggs thou laid.

Robert Dinsmoor to Silas Betton.

MY DEAR SIR-I take the liberty to address the following poem to you, and wish you to correct it and send me your candid remarks upon it. I will not say criticism, lest it should prevent my ever writing any more. It was occasioned by my crushing a nest of Sparrow's eggs, when ploughing among the corn, July 20, 1812. And about that time, I saw a well-done piece in the Haverhill Intelligencer, in imitation of Burns's delightful Nanny, which induced me to adopt the Scottish dialect, that it might the better resemble his beautiful mountain daisy. I call it The Sparrow.

The pious priest!

What savage heart could be sae hardy,
As wound thy breast?

Thy ruin was nae fau't o' mine,

(It gars me greet to see thee pine;)
It may be serves his great design,
Who governs all;

Omniscience tents wi' eyes divine,
The Sparrow's fall.

A pair more friendly ne'er were married,
Their joys an' pains were equal carried;
But now, ah me! to grief they're hurried,
Without remead;

When all their hope an' treasure's buried "Tis sad indeed.

How much like theirs are human dools!
Their sweet wee bairns laid i' the mools,
That sovereign Pow'r who nature rules,
Has said so be it;

But poor blin' mortals are sic' fools,
They canna' see it.

Nae doubt, that He wha first did mate us,
Has fixt our lot as sure as fate is,
And when he wounds, he disna' hate us,
But only this-

He'll gar the ills that here await us,
Yield lasting bliss.

Then martial fire inspir'd us all,
To arms we flew;

And as a soldier, stand or fall,
I went with you!

O'er western hills we travell'd far,
Pass'd Saratoga the site of war,
Where Burgoyne roll'd his feudal car,
Down Hudson's strand;

And Gates, our glorious western star,
Held high command.

From the green ridge, we glanc'd our eyes,
Where village flames illum'd the skies,
Destruction there was no surprise,
On Hudson's shore!

Though smoke in burning pillars rise,
And cannons roar!

But to Fort Edward* we were sent,
Through icy Bartenskiln we went,
And on that plain we pitch'd our tent,
'Gainst rain and snow;

Our orders there, was to prevent
The flying foe.

By counter orders, back we came,
And cross'd the Hudson s rapid stream,
At Schuyler's Mills,† of no small fame,
Thence took our post,

Near Burgoyne's line, with fixed aim,
To take his host!

With courage bold, we took the field,
Our foes no more their swords could wield,
God was our strength, and He our shield,
A present aid!

Proud Burgoyne's army there did yield,
All captive made!

Great Britain's honor there was stain'd,
We sang a glorious victory gain'd!
From hence our States a rank obtain'd,
'Mongst nations great;

Our future glory was ordain'd,
As sure as fate!

To Windham, back with joy we turn'd,
Where parents dear our absence mourn'd;
And our fair friends in rapture burn'd,
To see our faces!

Sweet pearly drops their cheeks adorn'd,
In our embraces!

When all our vanquish'd foes were fled,
Love, peace, and harmony were shed,
Like oil descending on the head,
Or milk or wine;
Williams, the man of God us fed,
With food divine.

O! let not you and I forget,
How often we've together met,
Like Heman and Jeduthon,§ set
In God's own house;

And solemnly his table at,
Renew'd our vows!

And when the sacred scene was past,
We sang Doxology at last,
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
United Three!

One God, our souls redeemed hast,