Song Lyric of the Day (Francis Hopkinson, Sending Up Redcoat Readiness in the Revolution)

“A soldier stood on a log of wood,
               And saw a thing surprising.
 
              As in amaze he stood to gaze,
               The truth can't be denied, sir,
              He spied a score of kegs or more
               Come floating down the tide, sir.
 
              A sailor too in jerkin blue,
               This strange appearance viewing,
              First damned his eyes, in great surprise,
               Then said, ‘Some mischief's brewing.
 
              "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold,
               Packed up like pickled herring;
              And they're come down to attack the town,
               In this new way of ferrying.’ 
 
              The soldier flew, the sailor too,
               And scared almost to death, sir,
              Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,
               And ran till out of breath, sir.”— American polymath and signer of the Declaration of Independence Francis Hopkinson (1737-1791), “The Battle of the Kegs,” originally published in 1778, reprinted in American Poetry: The Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, edited by David S. Shields (2007)
 
Faithful reader, if you’ve been reading this blog long enough and frequently enough, you’ll notice that I open and close the workweek with a humorous quote, on the reasonable supposition that everybody needs a laugh as they start their jobs on Monday and once they make it to Friday. I find no reason to change that pattern as we begin celebrating the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.
 
If you read anything at all about that document and the American Revolution in general (which I hope you will), nearly all of it will be very sober. And I’ll provide a bit of that over the weekend myself.
 
But human nature doesn’t change that much over the centuries, and the men and women who created this country liked to drink and laugh as much as we do. I think they would have nodded in agreement with a bibulous fellow writer on my college newspaper, when hearing a recent article described as “very sober,” remarked, “Gee, I hate anything sober!”
 
So did Francis Hopkinson, a signer of the Declaration of Independence whom I think you and I would have liked to hang with. A blog post of mine from 18 years ago described the general arc of the career of this witty Renaissance Man of the Revolution, but his part in depicting one incident in the war deserves a fuller explanation.
 
If the rhythm of his verses above sounds familiar, it should: they’re written to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.” Modern Americans associate that tune with patriots playing it on fife and drum on the way into battle, but it began a few decades before the war, with British doctor Richard Schuckburg creating a straw man with a colonist who was both a provincial hick and a pretentious fop.
 
By the outbreak of hostilities at Lexington and Concord, according to this account of the song on the Website of The Kennedy Center, the colonists were throwing the insult back, singing the tune derisively at the fleeing redcoats.
 
Nearly three years later, Hopkinson decided to make further use of the tune’s melody. You can see from the verses I’ve quoted that the lyrics are in ballad form, as capable of being sung as read.
 
What he was doing was rather audacious: taking a failed patriot military operation and, instead of being defensive about it, using it to mock vaunted British heroics.
 
In my high school, if you mentioned “The Battle of the Kegs,” some rowdy classmates might have seen it as a dare to finish off libations at a party. 

But in the American Revolution, it referred to a real patriot tactic in January 1778: to float explosive barrels at British ships. The colonists needed to try something: the British had captured and made themselves comfortable in Philadelphia, the capital of the young republic.
 
The whole thing was a big dud: no British ships blew up. But Hopkinson used the opportunity to satirize the redcoats’ panic and overreaction to the unknown objects coming their way.
 
Ultimately, the American Revolution would have to be settled by other means. But then as now, satire directed at an enemy possessing overwhelming power was necessary to sustain the spirit for the larger contest.

This Day in New Jersey History (Francis Hopkinson, “Declaration” Signer, Dies)

May 9, 1791—Francis Hopkinson—merchant, tax collector, mathematician, artist, composer, writer, wit, lawyer, judge, and signer of the Declaration of Independence—died of an epileptic fit at age 53, ending the life of one of the most versatile—and amiable—men who brought the United States into being.

I wish students could learn something about their state’s signers of the Declaration. But these days, we’re lucky if, after four years of high school, they can tell you anything besides the fact that Thomas Jefferson slept with one of his slaves.

Well, here’s my attempt to right the balance.

Let’s face it: Even though they were rebelling against the British king, many members of the Continental Congress were royal pills themselves. There was John Hancock, he of the big signature and the even bigger wallet, who was dumbfounded when George Washington rather than himself was nominated to command the Continental Army. There were Hancock’s Massachusetts colleagues, cousins John and Samuel Adams, who wouldn’t stop talking your ear off about independence. There was Button Gwinnett, whose signature is the rarest of the signers, because he quarreled with a Continental general who fatally wounded him in a pistol duel less than a year after the Declaration.

Sure, Thomas Jefferson was an agreeable sort—if you could get him to open up about himself, because he hardly said a word during debates, preferring to save his best thoughts for his writing. 

And Ben Franklin could be fun, with all his jokes and flirting with assorted wenches. But he always seemed to succeed at whatever he put his hand to, and if you didn’t know that already, he usually found a way, somehow or other, to remind you of it.

And whoever you turned to, if they resembled people of our time (and why not?), the conversation was likely to turn to their kids. And if you get tired of hearing people today brag about their kids, imagine what it was like in 1776.

All but five of the 56 signers had children, and some had far, far better claim than George Washington to the literal title of “Father of His Country.” Carter Braxton of Virginia had 18 children, and nine others weren’t such slouches in the fathering business, either, begetting at least 10 each of their own. (No wonder they wore their poor wives out!)

Now Hopkinson was more my kind of guy. He had a nice, manageable number of kids for that time: five survived him. 

He didn’t have a swelled head, because he’d failed as a merchant (unlike Hancock and fellow moneybags Robert Morris and Joseph Hewes). Actually, you might think of him as a more likable American counterpart to Thomas Paine, another failed merchant and tax collector who became friends with Ben Franklin and made a name for himself with his pen.

Something else of interest to me, given my professional interests: Hopkinson was secretary for the Library Company of Philadelphia. Though he took over the role for only a bit more than a year, it sounds as if he did a better job of it than Franklin, who was so disorganized and anxious to leave for a trip to Britain that he left meeting notes in a box with wife Deborah. Hopkinson, on the other hand, got everything back into working order again.

Even the cantankerous John Adams couldn’t help liking Hopkinson, as he wrote wife Abigail: “He is one of your pretty, little, curious, ingenious men. His head is not bigger than a large apple….I have not met with anything in natural history more amusing and entertaining than his personal appearance; yet he is genteel and well-bred, and is very social.”

Though Hopkinson signed the Declaration as a member of the New Jersey delegation, this period of his life was not particularly long-lasting. He was born, died, and lived most of his life in Philadelphia. The family of his wife was quite affluent, having founded Bordentown in New Jersey. 

He came to New Jersey as a customs collector, made a name for himself as a lawyer when that didn’t pan out, and was named to the provincial council by Ben Franklin’s illegitimate son William (that was before the revolution divided the father and his loyalist child). That accounted for his background before coming to the Continental Congress.

Here’s just a fast summary of some of Hopkinson’s professions and accomplishments:

· Musician – He invented a new method for quilling the harpsichord at age 17, not long after learning the instrument, and later went on to become the organist for Christ Church of Philadelphia.

· Composer – He is credited with writing America’s first grand opera, Temple of Minerva, as well as numerous songs, including The Toast, a drinking song in honor of General Washington, and Seven Songs for the Harpsichord, which he also dedicated to the great man. (This pleased George immensely, who allowed that, though his own ability to sing was non-existent, the composition must be good because he could tell people of taste that it came from “Mr. Hopkinson.” Hopkinson’s good musical genes were passed on to son Joseph, who went on to compose the song Hail, Columbia.)

· Writer –From an early age, Hopkinson delighted in essays and satires. One of the latter written during the Revolution, “Battle of the Kegs,” went a long way toward cheering Philadelphians up during the conflict.

· Artist – Hopkinson designed the Great Seal of the United States, another seal for New Jersey, and the original Orrery Seal for the University of Pennsylvania, an institution close to his heart as both a member of its first class and a trustee in later years. And this really makes me smile – when bored with the hot air of congressional debates, he amused himself by drawing caricatures of colleagues.

In 1780, Hopkinson wrote to Congress, claiming to have created the flag of the United States. He wasn’t interested in any monetary reward, he wrote, just a "Quarter cask of the public wine" as a token of appreciation.

No money? Just wine? Just give the man his cask and be done with it, I’d say.

But maybe Francis had created one too many unflattering drawings of members, because he received a letter back from Congress refusing to credit him for the flag’s creation, saying that he was one of only a number of people consulted in its creation. (Maybe so, though we have no other records of anyone else.) Maybe the cheapness and churlishness that the group showed in this instance demonstrates why they drove Washington to distraction throughout the war.

Hopkinson’s afterlife was fascinating in its way, too. Over the years, his gravestone in Christ Church burial ground became increasingly indistinct, to the point where it could no longer be readily identified. Then in the 1930s, with permission from his descendants, one likely plot was dug up and positively identified as that of the great signer and Renaissance man of the colonies.

So the next time you’re in Philadelphia, you can see his current gravestone, along with those of Franklin and other Declaration signers Benjamin Rush, Joseph Hewes and George Ross, printed in the large, noticeable letters Hopkinson deserves.