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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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