Verse > Anthologies > William McCarty, ed. > The American National Song Book
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William McCarty, comp.  The American National Song Book.  1842.
 
The Tea Tax
 
I SNUM I am a Yankee lad,
  And I guess I’ll sing a ditty;
And if you do not relish it,
  The more will be the pity;
That is, I think, I should have been        5
  A plaguy sight more finish’d man,
If I’d been born in Boston town;
  But I warn’t, ’cause I’m a countryman.
    Tol lol de ra.
    Ri tol de riddle iddle, ri tol de ra.        10
 
And t’other day the Yankee folks
  Were mad about the taxes,
And so we went, like Indians dress’d,
  To split tea-chests with axes:
I mean, ’twas done in seventy-three,        15
  An’ we were real gritty:
The mayor, he would have led the gang,
  But Boston warn’t a city.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
 
Ye see we Yankees didn’t care
  A pin for wealth or booty,        20
And so, in State Street, we agreed,
  We’d never pay the duty;
That is, in State Street ’twould have been,
  But ’twas King Street they call’d it then;
And the tax on tea, it was so bad,        25
  The women would not scald it then.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
 
To Charlestown bridge we all went down,
  To see the thing corrected:
That is, we would have gone there,
  But the bridge, it warn’t erected;        30
The tea, perhaps, was very good;
  Bohea, Souchong, or Hyson:
But drinking tea, it warn’t the rage,
  The duty made it poison.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
 
And then we went aboard the ships,        35
  Our vengeance to administer,
And didn’t care a tarnal bit
  For any king or minister;
We made a plaugy mess of tea
  In one of the biggest dishes,        40
I mean, we steep’d it in the sea,
  And treated all the fishes.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
 
And then, you see, we were all found out,
  A thing we hadn’t dreaded:
The leaders were to London sent,        45
  And instantly beheaded;
That is, I mean, they would have been,
  If ever they’d been taken:
But the leaders, they were never cotch’d,
  And so they saved their bacon.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
        50
 
Now, Heaven bless the president,
  And all this goodly nation;
And doubly bless our Boston mayor,
  And all the corporation;
And may all those who are our foes,        55
  Or at our praise have falter’d,
Soon have a change—that is, I mean,
  May all of them get halter’d.
          Tol lol de ra, &c.
 
 
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