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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.) |
|
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. |
| A fog follows, antiques of the same come limping, |
|
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and
bloodless. |
|
Why this is indeed a show—it has called the dead out of the
earth! |
| 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? |
|
Does the ague convulse your limbs? do you mistake your crutches
for firelocks 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 toss'd arms, and let
your white hair be, |
|
Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from
the windows, |
| 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? |
| Retreat then—pell-mell! |
| 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? |
|
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, |
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|
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 for the President's marshal again, bring out the govern-
ment cannon, |
|
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 windows, 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. |