A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

No! never such a draught was poured

Since Hebe served with nectar

The bright Olympians and their Lord,

Her over-kind protector,—

Since Father Noah squeezed the grape

And took to such behaving

As would have shamed our grandsire ape

Before the days of shaving,—

No! ne'er was mingled such a draught

In palace, hall, or arbor,

As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed

That night in Boston Harbor!

The Western war-cloud's crimson stained

The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;

Full many a six-foot grenadier

The flattened grass had measured,

And many a mother many a year

Her tearful memories treasured;

Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,

The mighty realms were troubled,

The storm broke loose, but first of all

The Boston teapot bubbled!

An evening party,— only that,

No formal invitation,

No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,

No feast in contemplation,

No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,

No flowers, no songs, no dancing,—

A tribe of red men, axe in hand,—

Behold the guests advancing!

How fast the stragglers join the throng,

From stall and workshop gathered!

The lively barber skips along

And leaves a chin half-lathered;

The smith has flung his hammer down,

The horseshoe still is glowing;

The truant tapster at the Crown

Has left a beer-cask flowing;

The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,

And trot behind their master;

Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,—

The crowd is hurrying faster,—

Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush

The streams of white-faced millers,

And down their slippery alleys rush

The lusty young Fort-Hillers —

The ropewalk lends its‘ prentice crew,—

The tories seize the omen:

“Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do

For England's rebel foemen,

‘ King Hancock,’ Adams, and their gang,

That fire the mob with treason,—

When these we shoot and those we hang

The town will come to reason.”

On — on to where the tea-ships ride!

And now their ranks are forming,—

A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side

The Mohawk band is swarming!

See the fierce natives! What a glimpse

Of paint and fur and feather,

As all at once the full-grown imps

Light on the deck together!

A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,

A blanket hides the breeches,—

And out the cursed cargo leaps,

And overboard it pitches!

O woman, at the evening board

So gracious, sweet, and purring,

So happy while the tea is poured,

So blest while spoons are stirring,

What martyr can compare with thee,

The mother, wife, or daughter,

That night, instead of best Bohea,

Condemned to milk and water!

Ah, little dreams the quiet dame

Who plies with’ rock and spindle

The patient flax, how great a flame

Yon little spark shall kindle!

The lurid morning shall reveal

A fire no king can smother

Where British flint and Boston steel

Have clashed against each other!

Old charters shrivel in its track,

His Worship's bench has crumbled,

It climbs and clasps the union-jack,

Its blazoned pomp is humbled,

The flags go down on land and sea

Like corn before the reapers;

So burned the fire that brewed the tea

That Boston served her keepers!

The waves that wrought a century's wreck

Have rolled o'er whig and tory;

The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck

Still live in song and story;

The waters in the rebel bay

Have kept the tea-leaf savor;

Our old North-Enders in their spray

Still taste a Hyson flavor;

And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows

With ever fresh libations,

To cheat of slumber all her foes

And cheer the wakening nations.