Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1860-1867 by Walt Whitman; William White; Sculley Bradley; Harold W. Blodgett; Arthur Golden

Author:Walt Whitman; William White; Sculley Bradley; Harold W. Blodgett; Arthur Golden
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Criticism, Literary Collections, Poetry by individual poets, Literary Collections : American - General, Journal, Poetry : General, Poetry Texts & Poetry Anthologies, Poetry, Poetry texts & anthologies, American, Literary Criticism, American - General, Literary - Poetry, Literature - Classics, General
ISBN: 9780814794432
Publisher: NYU Press
Published: 2008-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

Book 20.

By the Roadside.

A Boston Ballad [1854]

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.

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?

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!

Cock’d hats of mothy mould—crutches made of mist!

Arms in slings—old men leaning on young men’s shoulders. 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?

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 balk the government cannon.

For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be,

Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from the windows,

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 graveclothes, box up his bones for a journey,

Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, blackbellied 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! O hope and faith!

O aching close of exiled patriots’ lives!

O many a sicken’d heart!

Turn back unto this day and make yourselves afresh.

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.

And you, paid to defile the People—you liars, mark! Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,

For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity the poor man’s wages,

For many a promise sworn by royal lips and broken and laugh’d at in the breaking,

Stick your hands in your pockets,

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