Were we where the meadow was,
Mowing grass alone,
Would we go the way he went,
From this very stone?
Were we on the door-step here,
Parting for a day,
Would we utter words as though
Parting were for aye?
Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,
Meadow-math is sweet;
Parting be as parting may,
After all, we meet.
Hiram Rich.
Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon, while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for the firing line.
THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO'
[April 19, 1775]
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;
'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;
When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed—
A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!
And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,
Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.
The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day
To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;
They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,
Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:
"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;
Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;
Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;
On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;
We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:
All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"