I sailed from Bristol with a witch’s hag-cough,
Spitting phlegm on the ropes and rigging
All through the Atlantic’s winter storms;
The River Hudson brought no relief,
Just fog and headaches as we made our way upstream.
Our trade went well with the tribesmen,
Stroud Scarlet cloth, their prize,
Beaver pelts and bearskins, ours.
Stroud Scarlet gave scant shelter
From our colds, catarrh and shivering agues;
Their death-rattle was our invitation
To praise God’s Will, with fences, palisades,
And the cultivation of funeral virgin wastes,
As we advanced inland with Protestant virtue.