| 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. | |
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| 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. | 5 |
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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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| How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! | |
| Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. | |
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| A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, | |
| Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. | 10 |
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| 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 shoulders! | 15 |
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| 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? | |
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| 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. | |
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| For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be; | 20 |
| 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. | |
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| Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating? | |
| Is this hour with the living too dead for you? | |
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| Retreat then! Pell-mell! | 25 |
| To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! | |
| I do not think you belong here, anyhow. | |
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| 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—haste! | 30 |
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| 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. | |
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| Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government cannon, | |
| Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. | 35 |
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| This centre-piece for them: | |
| Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! | |
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| 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. | |
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| You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own. | 40 |
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| 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. | |
