‘Dig out King George’s coffin'

Federal marshals escort slave Anthony Burns to a ship amidst protests by Boston’s many abolitionists.

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. 10

Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth!

The old grave—yards 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!

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

fire—locks, 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; 20

Here gape your great grand—sons—their wives gaze at them from the

windows,

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?

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?

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! 30

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.

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 buster! The crown is come to its own,

and more than its own.

Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from

this day; 40

You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.

— “A Boston Ballad” (1854), by Walt Whitman (1819-1992). This poem protests the case of escaped slave Anthony Burns in 1854, wherein a federal judge decreed Burns should be returned to his owner. Because Boston was strongly abolitionist, masses came out to jeer at the marshals who were charged with escorting Burns to the ship that would take him back to the South.

Seeing the show in Boston

Brother Jonathan, in the 19th Century a visual personification of New England

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.

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.

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,
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 

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?

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. 

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 buster--the crown is come to its own,
and more than its own.

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.

“A Boston Ballad’’ (1854), by Walt Whitcomb (1819-1892)

The mourning continues to now

The poem, written in free verse in 206 lines,  was written in the summer of 1865 during profound national mourning in the aftermath of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865. Most historians rank him as our greatest president.

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, 

And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, 

I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. 

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, 

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, 

And thought of him I love. 

O powerful western fallen star! 

O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! 

O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star! 

O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! 

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings, 

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, 

With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard, 

With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 

A sprig with its flower I break. 

In the swamp in secluded recesses, 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 

Solitary the thrush, 

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, 

Sings by himself a song. 

Song of the bleeding throat, 

Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, 

If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.) 

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 

Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris, 

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, 

Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, 

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, 

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 

Night and day journeys a coffin. 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, 

With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black, 

With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing, 

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, 

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, 

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, 

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, 

With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin, 

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, 

With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang, 

Here, coffin that slowly passes, 

I give you my sprig of lilac. 

Nor for you, for one alone, 

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, 

For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death. 

All over bouquets of roses, 

O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, 

But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, 

Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, 

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, 

For you and the coffins all of you O death.) 

O western orb sailing the heaven, 

Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d, 

As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night, 

As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, 

As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on,) 

As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,) 

As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe, 

As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night, 

As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night, 

As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb, 

Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 

Sing on there in the swamp, 

O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, 

I hear, I come presently, I understand you, 

But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me, 

The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. 

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? 

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? 

And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? 

Sea-winds blown from east and west, 

Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, 

These and with these and the breath of my chant, 

I’ll perfume the grave of him I love. 

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? 

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, 

To adorn the burial-house of him I love? 

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, 

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, 

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, 

With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, 

In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, 

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows, 

And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, 

And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. 

Lo, body and soul—this land, 

My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, 

The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri, 

And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass and corn. 

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, 

The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, 

The gentle soft-born measureless light, 

The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon, 

The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, 

Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 

Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird, 

Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes, 

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. 

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, 

Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 

O liquid and free and tender! 

O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer! 

You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) 

Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. 

Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth, 

In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, 

In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, 

In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the storms,) 

Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, 

The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail’d, 

And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, 

And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, 

And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo, then and there, 

Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, 

Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail, 

And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. 

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, 

And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, 

And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, 

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, 

Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, 

To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. 

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me, 

The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three, 

And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. 

From deep secluded recesses, 

From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, 

Came the carol of the bird. 

And the charm of the carol rapt me, 

As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, 

And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. 

Come lovely and soothing death, 

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, 

In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 

Sooner or later delicate death. 

Prais’d be the fathomless universe, 

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, 

And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! 

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. 

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, 

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? 

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, 

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. 

Approach strong deliveress, 

When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, 

Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, 

Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death. 

From me to thee glad serenades, 

Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, 

And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, 

And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. 

The night in silence under many a star, 

The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, 

And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, 

Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, 

Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, 

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death. 

To the tally of my soul, 

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, 

With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night. 

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 

Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, 

And I with my comrades there in the night. 

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, 

As to long panoramas of visions. 

And I saw askant the armies, 

I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, 

Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc’d with missiles I saw them, 

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, 

And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) 

And the staffs all splinter’d and broken. 

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 

And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, 

I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, 

But I saw they were not as was thought, 

They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not, 

The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d, 

And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d, 

And the armies that remain’d suffer’d. 

16 

Passing the visions, passing the night, 

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands, 

Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, 

Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, 

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, 

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, 

Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, 

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, 

Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, 

I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. 

I cease from my song for thee, 

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, 

O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. 

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, 

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, 

And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul, 

With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, 

With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, 

Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, 

For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, 

Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, 

There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.