TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early;
Heres a good place at the cornerI must stand and see the show.
Clear the way there, Jonathan!
Way for the Presidents marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the Federal foot and dragoonsand the apparitions copiously tumbling.
I love to look on the stars and stripesI 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 followsantiques 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!
Cockd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist!
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young mens 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
If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the Presidents marshal;
If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon.
For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossd arms, and let your white hair be;
Here gape your great grand-sonstheir wives gaze at them from the windows,
See how well dressdsee how orderly they conduct themselves.
Worse and worse! Cant 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 hereshall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of
I will whisper it to the Mayorhe shall send a committee to England;
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vaulthaste!
Dig out King Georges coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his
Find a swift Yankee clipperhere is freight for you, black-bellied clipper,
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay.
Now call for the Presidents marshal again, bring out the government cannon,
Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and
This centre-piece for them:
Look! all orderly citizenslook 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
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathanyou are a made man from this day;
You are mighty cuteand here is one of your bargains.