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,

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,

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,

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-dowswindows, 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.