Boston Town by Walt Whitman

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. 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 graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! / Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! / 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 / firelocks, 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 baulk the government cannon.

For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white hair be; / Here gape your great grandsons -- 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! / To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! / I do not think you belong here, anyhow.

4. 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.

5. 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 bluster! The crown is come to its own, and / more than its own.

6. 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.