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Leaves of Grass (1860)
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A BOSTON BALLAD,
The 78th Year of These States.
| 1 CLEAR the way there, Jonathan! |
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the gov-
ernment cannon!
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Way for the federal foot and dragoons—and the appa-
ritions copiously tumbling.
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2 I rose this morning early, to get betimes in Boston
town,
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Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand and
see the show.
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3 I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the fifes
will play Yankee Doodle.
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| 4 How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! |
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through
Boston town.
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| 5 A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, |
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear ban-
daged and bloodless.
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View Page 338
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6 Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of
the earth!
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The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to
see!
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Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear
of it!
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Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of
mist!
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Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's
shoulders!
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7 What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all
this chattering of bare gums?
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Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mis-
take your crutches for fire-locks, and level
them?
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8 If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see
the President's marshal,
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If you groan such groans you might balk the govern-
ment cannon.
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9 For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed
arms, and let your white hair be,
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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.
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10 Worse and worse! Can't you stand it! Are you
retreating!
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| Is this hour with the living too dead for you? |
View Page 339
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| 11 Retreat then! Pell-mell! |
Back to your graves! Back to the hills, old
limpers!
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| I do not think you belong here, anyhow. |
12 But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell
you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?
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13 I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a com-
mittee to England,
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They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a
cart to the royal vault—haste!
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Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick
from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a
journey,
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Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you,
black-bellied clipper,
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Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer
straight toward Boston bay.
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14 Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out
the government cannon,
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Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make an-
other procession, guard it with foot and dra-
goons.
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| 15 This centre-piece for them: |
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows,
women!
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16 The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs,
glue those that will not stay,
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View Page 340
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Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on
top of the skull.
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17 You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is
come to its own, and more than its own.
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18 Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you
are a made man from this day,
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You are mighty cute—and here is one of your
bargains.
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