“I don’t want to interrupt your eating, Brown and Hanson,” said Colson, “but couldn’t you stir us up a little with the drum and fife?”

“Ay,” added young Hand, who seemed to be the general mouth-piece of the younger portion of the company, “give us the air you played when you marched up from Griffin’s Wharf.”

“No objection,” replied Hanson.  “Come, Brown, get out your whistle.  There’s a little music left in it yet, I know.”

The old fife was soon produced, and the drum also; and moving their chairs a short distance from the table, the veteran musicians struck up the stirring air of the old Massachusetts Song of Liberty, once so popular throughout the colonies, and supposed to have been written by Mrs. Warren.

“Hurra!” exclaimed Hand, when the musicians had concluded.  “Three cheers for the music and the musicians!” and three cheers were given quite lustily by the young men, and some of the old ones.

“I have a copy of that Song of Liberty,” said Hand.  “Here it is, with the music.  I’ll sing it and you must all join in the chorus.”

“Good!” said Kinnison, and the others echoed him.  Hand then sang the following words, the young men joining in the chorus, and, occasionally, some of the veterans attempting to do likewise.

Come swallow your bumpers, ye tories, and roar,
That the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper’d once more;
But know that no cut-throats our spirits can tame,
Nor a host of oppressors shall smother the flame. 
In freedom we’re born, and, like sons of the brave,
Will never surrender,
But swear to defend her,
And scorn to survive, if unable to save.

Our grandsires, bless’d heroes, we’ll give them a tear,
Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;
Through deaths and through dangers their trophies they won,
We dare be their rivals, nor will be outdone. 

            In freedom we’re born, &c.

Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,
Encroach on our rights, and make freedom their prize;
The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,
Though vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep! 

            In freedom we’re born, &c.

    The tree which proud Haman for Mordecai rear’d
    Stands recorded, that virtue endanger’d is spared;
    That rogues, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain. 
    Must be stripp’d of their honors and humbled again. 
          In freedom we’re born, &c.

    Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall know,
    Those who dare to be free shall forever be so;
    On these arms and these hearts they may safely rely,
    For in freedom we’ll live, or like heroes we’ll die. 
          In freedom we’re born, &c.

    Ye insolent tyrants! who wish to enthrall;
    Ye minions, ye placemen, pimps, pensioners, all;
    How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust! 
    Your honor must wither and nod to the dust. 
          In freedom we’re born, &c.