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22 — Poem of Apparitions in Boston, The 78th Year of These States.

CLEAR the way there, Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for
the government cannon!
Way for the federal foot and dragoons—and the
apparitions copiously tumbling.

I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston
town,
Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand
and see the show.

I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the
fifes will play Yankee Doodle.

How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost
troops!
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff
through Boston town.

A fog follows, antiques of the same come
limping,


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Some appear wooden-legged and some appear
bandaged and bloodless.

Why this is a show! It has called the dead out
of the earth!
The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to
see!
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear
of it!
Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of
mist!
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's
shoulders!

What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is
all this chattering of bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you
mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and
level them?

If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see
the President's marshal,
If you groan such groans you might balk the
government cannon.

For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those
tossed arms and let your white hair be,
Here gape your smart grand-sons—their wives
gaze at them from the windows,


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See how well-dressed—see how orderly they
conduct themselves.

Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

Retreat then! Pell-mell! Back to the hills, old
limpers!
I do not think you belong here, anyhow.

But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I
tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?

I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a
committee to England,
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go
with a cart to the royal vault,
Dig out King George's coffin—unwrap him quick
from the grave-clothes—box up his bones for
a journey,
Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for
you, black-bellied clipper!
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer
straight toward Boston bay.

Now call the President's marshal again, bring
out the government cannon,


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Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make
another procession, guard it with foot and
dragoons.

This centre-piece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the win-
dows, women!

The committee open the box, set up the regal
ribs, glue those that will not stay,
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a
crown on top of the skull.

You have got your revenge, old buster! The
crown is come to its own, and more than its
own.

Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan—you
are a made man from this day,
You are mighty cute, and here is one of your
bargains.

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