In the thread Songs with the names of cities and towns in the title the paucity of songs about Schenectady is noted. I came across this gory tale in "Body, Boots and Britches, Folklore, Ballads and Speech from Country New York" by Harold W. Thompson, 1939, Dover Reprint, 1962:

A Ballad - In which is set forth the horrid cruelties practiced by the French and Indians on the 8th of last February. The which I did compose last night, in the space of one hour, and am now writing, the morning of Friday, June 12th, 1690 - W.W.

God prosper long our King and Queen,
Our lives and safeties all,
A sad misfortune once there did
Schenectady befall.

From forth the woods of Canada
The Frenchmen tooke their way
The people of Schenectady
To captivate and slay.

They marched for two and twenty daies,
All thro' the deepest snow;
And on a dismal winter night
They strucke the cruel blow.

The lightsome sun that rules the day,
Had gone down in the west;
And eke the drowsie villagers
Had sought and found their reste.

They thought they were in safetie all,
And dreampt not of the foe;
But att midnight they all awoke,
In wonderment and woe.

For they were in their pleasant Beddes,
And soundelie sleeping, when
Each door was sudden open broke
By six or seven Men.

The Men and Women, younge & old,
And eke the Girls and Boys,
All started uo in great Affright,
Att the alarming Noise.

They then were murthered in their Beddes.
Without shame or remorse;
And soon the Floores and Streets were strew'd
With many a bleeding corse.

The Village soon began to Blaze,
Which show'd the horrid sight -
But, O, I scarce can Beare to Tell
The Mis'ries of that night.

They threw the Infants in the Fire,
The Men they did not spare;
But killed All which they could find
Tho' Aged or tho' Fair.

O Christe ! In the still Midnight Air,
It sounded dismally,
The Women's Prayers and the loud screams'
Of their great Agony.

Methinks as if I hear them now
All ringing in my ear;
The shrieks & Groans & Woeful Sighs,
They utter'd in their Fear.

But some ran off to Albany,
And told the doleful Tale:
Yett, tho' We gave our chearful Aid
It did not much avail.

And We were horribly afraid,
And shook with Terror, when
They told us that the Frenchmen were
More than a Thousand Men.

The News came on the Sabbath Morn
Just att the Break of Day,
And with a company of Horse
I galloped away.

But soone We found the French were gone
With all their great Bootye;
And then their Trail We did pursue,
As was our true Dutye.

The Mohaques joined our brave Partye,
And followed in the chase
Till we came upp with the Frenchmen,
Att a most likelye place.

Our soldiers fell upon their Reare,
And killed twenty-five,
Our Young Men were so much enrag'd
They took scarce One alive.

D'Aillebout them did commande,
Which were but Thievish Rogues,
Else why did they consent and Goe
With bloody Indian Dogges?

And Here I End the long Ballad
The Which you have just redde;
And wish that it may stay on earth,
Long after I am Dead.
                      Walter Wilie
Albany, 12th of June 1690

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Click to play

(tune from George Ward)