| Citation |
NJG-T.780.021
15 Nov 1780:11,12 (3/151)
New-York, September 12, 1780
How little I dreamt when I wrote last, my sister,
The rebels were still on our backs like a blister,
When th' mov'd to Fort Lee, I was happy too soon,
And thought myself snug as the man in the moon.
. . . [63 lines]
What sorrowful tunes do they set to our eyes;
When they sing of themselves, what fustian and lies,
. . . [12 lines]
This morning, quoth Bet, as she lac'd on my stays,
It enters my head, we shall have no more plays;
And as for the balls dance at them who may,
I trust there will some of them fall in our way.
. . . [26 more lines, signed] Z
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