The day King George torched the town and tried to bring the East Bay down, dawned bright and cool and balmy.
Ships shelled downtown, some ran aground unloading the redcoat army.
They marched that day along the bay to Warren’s seaport side,
Burned boats and buildings, churches and homes where many folks reside.
Refugees, it’s said, in numbers fled, but many more chose not to be cowed,
A militia was formed, an army born, men who to the crown refused to bow.
“Let’s make George pay,” they swore that day, “his redcoats shall we stop, “We’ll defeat the Brits, send home their ships, then rebuild from bottom to top.”
With Rochambeau, the troops marched slow along the ferry road.
In the south of town they suddenly found where redcoats overflowed.
With French soldiers aid they staged a raid and sent the Brits a joggin’
Back to Newport town, there safe and sound to bandage wounds an’ noggin’.
From ‘76 to ‘82 we suffered more, from endless war, population dwindlin’;
The war caught fire, both sides were mired within its flames like kindlin’.
A cannon ball was found, in a house near town, perhaps at the harbor’s head,
Bones scattered about without a doubt where both sides once fell dead.
With the British defeat, the revolution complete, Bristol started in rebuildin’.
Ships returned to shore, trade bloomed, restored, the “lily” was a gildin’.
Today, no king juts out a ring expecting to garner some kisses;
We don’t say “yes” even under duress, rejecting authoritarian wishes!
Like the Phoenix of old, or so we’re told, townsfolk arose from the ashes
To create a fine place, where all enjoy space for freedom and July 4th bashes.

-Jim Manchester