human
Yankee Doodle, my Darling! It is you against the British, Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top Through Father's spy-glass. The red city, and the blue, bright water, And puffs of smoke which you made. Twenty miles away, Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, But the smoke was white--white! To-day the trumpet-flowers are red--red-- And I cannot see you fighting, But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, And Myra sings
gpt
Yankee Doodle