Opinion : The patriotic mosquito poem

One of my favorite humorous poems has always been an 120-year-old ditty called “The Mosquito Hunt.”

The poem, from a book of poetry dated around 1860, tells of the story of a couple trying to kill a mosquito that threatened to interrupt their sleep with a painful bite. I am reprinting that poem here. I assume the copyright has expired; if not, I invite the anonymous author to contact me as soon as possible.

The Mosquito Hunt

Not a sound was heard but a terrible hum

As round the chamber we hurried

In search of the mosquito whose trumpet and drum

Our delectable slumber had worried.

We sought it darkly at dead of night

Our coverlet carefully turning

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And our candle dimly burning.

No useless garment confined our breast

But in simple night-dress and slippers

We wandered about like spirits distressed

Or the sails of piratical skippers.

Short and few were the words we let fall

Lest the sound should disturb the mosquito

But we steadfastly gazed on the white-washed wall

And thought how we had been bit - Oh!

But half an hour seemed to elapse

Ere we met with the wretch that had bit us

And raising our boots we gave some terrible slaps

And made the mosquito quietus

Quickly and gladly we turned from the dead

And left him all smashed and gory

We blew out the candle and popped into bed

Determined to tell you the story.

I love this poem and I always thought it was a wonderful 19th Century expression of American life that captures a battle we all face every summer in a way that helps us understand how people lived in the U.S. in the 1800s.

But it’s even more than that.

It’s a wonderful expression of American patriotism.

How, you may ask, does a poem about smashing a mosquito promote patriotism?

Let me explain.

The mosquito hunt is a parody of a serious British poem that honors a soldier who fought against America during the Revolutionary War.

That man, Sir John Moore, earned fame in England (and some fearful respect in the colonies) for his success in our war for independence. He was a teenager when he came to fight the rebelling colonists; he joined the British Army at age 15. He had some success against the Americans and soon earned a reputation as a great fighter and leader among the British -- as well as the respect of the colonists.

He served as a soldier until his death during a battle between Britain and Spain in 1809. He was hit with a cannon shell and died a few hours later.

His funeral was a British national event; a poem about that funeral, "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna," was often called one of the best poems of his day.

I read the poem and soon realized it that it is very familiar. Again, I reprint it here, assuming the copyright has expired; if not, I invite the Redcoats to come -- by land or sea, your choice.

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

Charles Wolfe. 1791–1823

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

The more I read, the more I realized: This sounds like “The Mosquito Hunt.”

No useless coffin enclosed his breast...  

Slowly and sadly we laid him down..  

From the field of his fame fresh and gory...

And then I realized that ‘The Mosquito Hunt” is not at all about mosquitoes. It’s about Americans making fun of a man who fought against them in the war for our nation’s freedom.

We current Americans tend to think that with our “shock jocks” and late night talk show hosts that our generation is the wittiest and most clever of them all.

But if we only knew how much wiser our forefathers were, and how much more creatively and humorously they could communicate just about anything they had to say — even with the limited technologies of their day — we’d start asking why they were so much better.