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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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A BOSTON BALLAD.
(1854.)
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. |
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.)
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I love to look on the Stars and Stripes, I hope the fifes will play
Yankee Doodle.
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View Page 210
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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, |
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and
bloodless.
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Why this is indeed a show—it has called the dead out of the
earth!
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The old graveyards 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 shoulders. |
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 mistake your crutches
for firelocks and level them?
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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 government cannon. |
For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss'd arms, and let
your white hair be,
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Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from
the windows,
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See how well dress'd, 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? |
To your graves—back—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?
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I will whisper it to the Mayor, he shall send a committee to
England,
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They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the
royal vault,
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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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View Page 211
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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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Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the govern-
ment cannon,
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Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession,
guard it with foot and dragoons.
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This centre-piece for them; |
Look, all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! |
The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that
will not stay,
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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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You have got your revenge, old buster—the crown is come to its
own, and more than its own.
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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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