Leaves of Grass (1860)/A Boston Ballad, the 78th Year T. S.

by Walt Whitman

Layout 2

A BOSTON BALLAD,

The 78th Year of These States.

1.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.

2.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.
 
3.I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the fifes
will play Yankee Doodle.

4.How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!
 Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through
Boston town.

5.A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged
and bloodless.

6.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!

7.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?

8.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.

9.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.

10.Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

11.Retreat then! Pell-mell!
Back to your graves! Back to the hills, old limpers!
I do not think you belong here, anyhow.

12.But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell
you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?

13.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.

14.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.

15.This centre-piece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows,
women!

16.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.

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

18. 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.