A PLEA FOR OLD FRIENDS
I WAS fond, indeed, of Paul Revere,
In the days of my earlier age,
And the picture of him stands out clear
From the old school reader page;
And I’ve seen the light in the belfry tower,
I’ve heard the hoof beats, too,
But, alas! alas! in an evil hour,
They say it’s all untrue!
And Barbara Frietchie—all these years,
From guileless boyhood down,
I’ve seen the flag and heard the cheers
In far off Fredericktown;
And I’ve seen Jackson lift his hat
And bid his troops march on,
But now, alas! they tell me that
Is a dreamer’s tale, and gone!
And oft at night, as though ’t were real,
I’ve heard the flame’s wild roar,
I’ve seen Jim Bludso hold the wheel
Till the last galoot’s ashore;
I thought the better of men for it,
And of duty to die or do,
But some wise men, of little wit,
Say none of the tale is true.
Oh, leave me the ride of Paul Revere
And the story of Fredericktown!
The nozzle agin’ th’ bank—so clear
From guileless boyhood down!
Leave me the curfew that was not rung,
Leave them for me and you;
And let more songs like these be sung,
Though none of the tales be true!
THE BOYVILLE CADETS
HARK! What is that clatter and patter of feet?
The Boyville Cadets are half-way up the street!
They march two by two, a most bloodthirsty horde,
Led by Captain Tom Jones, with a big wooden sword.
They’re mostly barelegged and coatless and brown,
A make-believe army from all parts of town,
With guns on their shoulders all whittled from lath,
And woe to the foeman who crosses their path.
Bob Brown has a fife and Bill Blake has a drum.
See now in what martial procession they come;
Jim Dobbs waves the flag with victorious flirt,
A long willow pole with a red woolen shirt.
And Corporal Brownlegs, he squints down the line:
“Attention! Right shoulder! Guide right!” Oh, it’s fine
To know you’ve no troubles, no worries, no debts,
And march down the street with the Boyville Cadets!
Now Sergeant Big Freckles cries, “Hep! Hep!” and “Hep!”
To see that the army keeps right perfect step.
And General Red Hair reins up with great force,
To shout some command from his make-believe horse.
Then Captain Tom Jones gives a formal salute,
And rests his big sword on the toe of his boot,
For woe to the foe that harasses or frets
The solid platoon of the Boyville Cadets!
Then Corporal Barefoot is ordered to scout
For bloodthirsty redskins, and look all about.
They march, single file, through the thick-growing trees,
For favorite haunts of the red men are these.
Far off in the woods, is an ear-splitting shout.
Alas! ’Tis the death-cry of Barefoot, the scout!
And now all the air rings with war-whoops and cries;
Bang! bang! go the laths, and the red savage dies!