William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
The Tea TaxI
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
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.
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,
An’ we were real gritty:
The mayor, he would have led the gang,
But Boston warn’t a city.
Tol lol de ra, &c.
A pin for wealth or booty,
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,
The women would not scald it then.
Tol lol de ra, &c.
To see the thing corrected:
That is, we would have gone there,
But the bridge, it warn’t erected;
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.
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,
I mean, we steep’d it in the sea,
And treated all the fishes.
Tol lol de ra, &c.
A thing we hadn’t dreaded:
The leaders were to London sent,
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.
And all this goodly nation;
And doubly bless our Boston mayor,
And all the corporation;
And may all those who are our foes,
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.