BOOK XX. BY THE ROADSIDE

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.

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.

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, black-bellied clipper,

Up with your anchor — shake out your sails — steer straight toward

Boston bay.

Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,

But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling, cautioning.

Liberty, let others despair of you — I never despair of you.

Is the house shut? is the master away?

Nevertheless, be ready, be not weary of watching,

He will soon return, his messengers come anon.