The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 08 / Bunker Hill and Other Poems

Produced by David Widger
1874-1877
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AT THE ATLANTIC DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874 LUCY. FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875 HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, OCTOBER 7, 1875 A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE JOSEPH WARREN, M. D. OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875 WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876 A FAMILIAR LETTER UNSATISFIED HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET AN APPEAL FOR THE OLD SOUTH THE FIRST FAN To R. B. H. THE SHIP OF STATE A FAMILY RECORD
'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of the times that tried men's souls ; When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.
I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: Child, says grandma, what 's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute — For a minute then I started. I was gone the live-long day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels!