Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning
early;

Here's a good place at the corner—I must stand and
see the show.

² Clear the way there, Jonathan!

Way for the President's marshal! Way for the govern-
ment cannon!

Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the appa-
ritions copiously tumbling.

³ I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the
fifes will play Yankee Doodle.

⁴ How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!

Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through
Boston town.

⁵ A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping,

Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear ban-
daged and bloodless.

⁶ Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out
of the earth!

The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see!

Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear!

Cock'd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist!

Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoul-
ders!

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⁷ What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all
this clattering of bare gums?

Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake
your crutches for firelocks, and level them?

⁸ If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the
President's marshal;

If you groan such groans, you might balk the govern-
ment cannon.

⁹ For shame old maniacs! Bring down those toss'd
arms, and let your white hair be;

Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at
them from the windows,

See how well dress'd—see how orderly they conduct
themselves.

¹⁰ Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
retreating?

Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

¹¹ Retreat then! Pell-mell!

To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers!

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?

¹³ I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a com-
mittee to England;

They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a
cart to the royal vault—haste!

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.

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 another
procession, guard it with foot and dragoons.

¹⁵ This centre-piece for them:

Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows,
women!

¹⁶ 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.

¹⁷ You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown
has come to its own, and more than its own.

¹⁸ 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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