A Boston Ballad
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.
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
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!
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
toss'd
arms,
and
let
your
white
hair
be;
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.
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—haste!
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
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.
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.
Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman, (born May 31, 1819, West Hills, Long Island, New York, U.S.—died March 26, 1892, Camden, New Jersey), American poet, journalist, and essayist whose verse collection Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, is a landmark in the history of American literature. Walt Whitman’s poetry was innovative for its verse style and for the way it challenged traditional narratives. He championed the individual soul over social conventions, presenting himself as a rough and free spirit. His poetry has continued to resonate with new generations of Americans, and he is considered a symbol of American democracy.