back to the hills, old
limpers!
Whitman
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.
