A Boston Ballad, 1854

3Clear the way there, Jonathan!

4Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon!

5Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling.

6I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.

7How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!

8Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

9A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping,

10Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

11Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth!

12The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see!

13Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear!

14Cock’d hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist!

15Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men’s shoulders!

16What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums?

17Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level

18 them?

19If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President’s marshal;

20If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon.

21For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be;

22Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows,

23See how well dress’d—see how orderly they conduct themselves.

24Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating?

25Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

26Retreat then! Pell-mell!

27To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers!

28I do not think you belong here, anyhow.

29But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of

30 Boston?

31I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England;

32They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste!

33Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his

34 bones

35 for a

36 journey;

37Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper,

38Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay.

39Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government cannon,

40Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and

41 dragoons.

42This centre-piece for them:

43Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women!

44The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay,

45Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.

46You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its

47 own.

48Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day;

49You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.