My favorite song about the Revolutionary War is “Blacksmith of Brandywine.” It is, to its core, a profoundly American song—the blacksmith wanted to live in peace, but he was not allowed to; the aftermath was epic.
The song lyrics were written by Pat Garvey (a West Coast folk performer in the 60s, not the current-day East Coast folk performer), while the music was composed by his then-wife Victoria. They sent the song to The New Christy Minstrels, who recorded it in 1964 (watch here).
Garvey was actually inspired by a short tale from Charles Skinner’s Myths and Legends of Our Own Land (pub. 1896):
TERRIBLE in the field at Brandywine was the figure of a man armed only with a hammer, who plunged into the ranks of the enemy, heedless of his own life, yet seeming to escape their shots and sabre cuts by magic, and with Thor strokes beat them to the earth. But yesterday war had been to him a distant rumor, a thing as far from his cottage at Dilworth as if it had been in Europe, but he had revolted at a plot that he had overheard to capture Washington and had warned the general. In revenge the Tories had burned his cottage, and his wife and baby had perished in the flames. All day he had sat beside the smoking ruins, unable to weep, unable to think, unable almost to suffer, except dumbly, for as yet he could not understand it. But when the drums were heard they roused the tiger in him, and gaunt with sleeplessness and hunger he joined his countrymen and ranged like Ajax on the field. Every cry for quarter was in vain: to every such appeal he had but one reply,—his wife’s name—Mary.
Near the end of the fight he lay beside the road, his leg broken, his flesh torn, his life ebbing from a dozen wounds. A wagoner, hasting to join the American retreat, paused to give him drink. “I’ve only five minutes more of life in me,” said the smith. “Can you lift me into that tree and put a rifle in my hands?” The powerful teamster raised him to the crotch of an oak, and gave him the rifle and ammunition that a dying soldier had dropped there. A band of red-coats came running down the road, chasing some farmers. The blacksmith took careful aim; there was a report, and the leader of the band fell dead. A pause; again a report rang out, and a trooper sprawled upon the ground. The marksman had been seen, and a lieutenant was urging his men to hurry on and cut him down. There was a third report, and the lieutenant reeled forward into the road, bleeding and cursing. “That’s for Mary,” gasped the blacksmith. The rifle dropped from his hands, and he, too, sank lifeless against the boughs.
The Battle of Brandywine was fought in Delaware County, Pennsylvania on September 11, 1777, and it was the largest battle, in sheer numbers of combatants, of the Revolutionary War; the fighting went on for 11 hours. The Americans were eventually forced to retreat (ironically, it was poor scouting that lead to the British being able to flank Washington’s troops), and the British were able to take Philadelphia two weeks later. But the battle and the skirmishing afterward also held Gen. William Howe away from the Battle of Saratoga, where the Americans (led by Gen. Horatio Gates) won a decisive victory that torpedoed Gen. John Burgoyne’s career and inspired the French to ally with the Americans.
I first heard this song on the anthology album Brandywine, published by Off Centaur Publications, but that version isn’t online anywhere that I can find. So I’m substituting a version by Dave Smith of Ozark Highlands Radio. He alters the lyrics and tune a bit, but the overall performance is more true to the feelings conveyed by that first version I heard, and more respectful of the moral weight of the song. But I’m giving the lyrics as I originally heard them at the bottom.
Blacksmith of Brandywine
As we rode down to Brandywine,
There was a sight to see:
A giant of a man with a hammer in his hand
Beneath an old oak tree.
And all around him on the ground,
In fatal disarray,
A score of men who’d never fight again
Nor travel on the King’s Highway.We dug a grave and covered ’im o’er
And sadly wept a tear,
Then passed the day, riding on our way,
’Til we met with a musketeer.
From him we learned the story of
A brave and angry man
Who undertook a British company
With a hammer in his hand.Make it one for Washington and all his gallant men,
And one for the girl that once was mine.
Make it one for the darlin’ boy I’ll never see again,
And don’t forget the Blacksmith of Brandywine.In Chester town there lived a man,
Away from the cannon’s roar:
Of manner mild, his woman and child
No man could ever love more.
But the Tories spoke of a plot one day
To waylay Washington.
He left his home and his family alone;
To the General he did run.His errand done, he journeyed home,
But sorrow there he found:
His wife and son, by British gun,
Lay still on the cold, hard ground.
So the Blacksmith reached for a heavy sledge
And he took a practice swing.
They say clear to the line at Brandywine
You could hear that hammer sing:Make it one for Washington and all his gallant men,
And one for the girl that once was mine.
Make it one for the darlin’ boy I’ll never see again,
And don’t forget the Blacksmith of Brandywine.
Thoughts?
A perfect ballad for Independence week and poignant reminder of the sacrifice of so many unsung heroes. The illegal fireworks have started here and all I can do is endure and be very grateful they are not real bombs! I am feeling particlarly alarmed by the Islamist threat on multiple levels right now. Of course in this blue wokey area, most seem oblivious and it's impossible to talk about it with hardly anyone. Even many of the local conservatives I know seem to be on the Tucker/Owens track with this. I just cannot understand how they do not get it. So grateful for all you folks here who do understand the real and present danger to democracy we are facing from the rise of Islamism.
Thanks, Celia. A great story and song for a beautiful area of the country. From the old DuPont powder mills at Hagley to the Brandywine battlefield and any number of old stone houses, the place is awash in history.
One thing: ". . . he joined his countrymen and ranged like Ajax on the field."
Ajax was my favorite ancient Greek guy. But would any kid know him now?