They're 'most too fur away, take too much time To visit of'en, ef it ain't in rhyme; But the' 's a walk thet's hendier, a sight, An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,-- I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill.

I love to l'iter there while night grows still, An' in the twinklin' villages about, Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out, 30 An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms, Or m.u.f.fled c.o.c.k-crows from the drowsy farms, Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way) Stands to 't thet moon-rise is the break o' day; (So Mister Seward sticks a three-months' pin Where the war'd oughto eend, then tries agin: My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 'tis to crow: _Don't never prophesy--onless ye know_.) I love to muse there till it kind o' seems Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams; 40 The northwest wind thet twitches at my baird Blows out o' st.u.r.dier days not easy scared, An' the same moon thet this December shines Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines; The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs, Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns; Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light, Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh, Rings the sharp ch.e.l.lenge, hums the low reply. 50

Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence, Mixin' the puffict with the present tense, I heerd two voices som'ers in the air, Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where: Voices I call 'em: 'twas a kind o' sough Like pine-trees thet the wind's ageth'rin' through; An', fact, I thought it _was_ the wind a spell, Then some mis...o...b..ed, couldn't fairly tell, Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel, I knowed, an' didn't,--fin'lly seemed to feel 60 'Twas Concord Bridge a talkin' off to kill With the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker's Hill; Whether 'twas so, or ef I on'y dreamed, I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed.

THE BRIDGE

Wal, neighbor, tell us wut's turned up thet's new?

You're younger 'n I be,--nigher Boston, tu: An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin', Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'.

There's _sunthin'_ goin' on, I know: las' night The British sogers killed in our gret fight 70 (Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke) Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke: Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With his own crossbones on a holler tree, Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five.

Wut _is_ the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'.

Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.

THE MONIMENT

I don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,--

THE BRIDGE

At wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had. 80

THE MONIMENT

You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent, An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?

THE BRIDGE

Wut! they ha'n't hanged 'em?

Then their wits is gone!

Thet's the sure way to make a goose a swan!

THE MONIMENT

No: England she _would_ hev 'em, _Fee, Faw, Fum!_ (Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,) So they've returned 'em--

THE BRIDGE

_Hev_ they? Wal, by heaven, Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven!

_By George_, I meant to say, though I declare It's 'most enough to make a deacon swear. 90

THE MONIMENT

Now don't go off half-c.o.c.k: folks never gains By usin' pepper-sa.r.s.e instid o' brains.

Come, neighbor, you don't understan'--

THE BRIDGE

How? Hey?

Not understan'? Why, wut's to hender, pray?

Must I go huntin' round to find a chap To tell me when my face hez hed a slap?

THE MONIMENT

See here: the British they found out a flaw In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law: (They _make_ all laws, you know, an' so, o' course, It's nateral they should understan' their force:) 100 He'd oughto ha' took the vessel into port, An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court; She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu, An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view, Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails, Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' fails; You _may_ take out despatches, but you mus'n't Take nary man--

THE BRIDGE

You mean to say, you dus'n't!

Changed pint o'view! No, no,--it's overboard With law an' gospel, when their ox is gored! 110 I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land, Hez ollers ben, '_I've gut the heaviest hand_.'

Take nary man? Fine preachin' from _her_ lips!

Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships, An' would agin, an' swear she had a right to, Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to.

Of all the sa.r.s.e thet I can call to mind, England _doos_ make the most onpleasant kind: It's you're the sinner ollers, she's the saint; Wut's good's all English, all thet isn't ain't; 120 Wut profits her is ollers right an' just, An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must; She's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks There ain't no light in Natur when she winks; Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus?

Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus?

She ain't like other mortals, thet's a fact: _She_ never stopped the habus-corpus act, Nor specie payments, nor she never yet Cut down the int'rest on her public debt; 130 _She_ don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed, An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede; She's all thet's honest, honnable, an' fair, An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.

THE MONIMENT

Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right; Ef we're mistaken, own up, an' don't fight: For gracious' sake, ha'n't we enough to du 'thout gettin' up a fight with England, tu?

She thinks we're rabble-rid--

THE BRIDGE

An' so we can't Distinguish 'twixt _You oughtn't_ an' _You shan't!_ 140 She jedges by herself; she's no idear How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer: The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain's a steeple,-- Her People's turned to Mob, our Mob's turned People.

THE MONIMENT

She's riled jes' now--

THE BRIDGE

Plain proof her cause ain't strong,-- The one thet fust gits mad's 'most ollers wrong.

Why, sence she helped in lickin' Nap the Fust, An' p.r.i.c.ked a bubble jest agoin' to bust, With Rooshy, Prooshy, Austry, all a.s.sistin', Th' ain't nut a face but wut she's shook her fist in, 150 Ez though she done it all, an' ten times more, An' nothin' never hed gut done afore, Nor never could agin, 'thout she wuz spliced On to one eend an' gin th' old airth a hoist.

She _is_ some punkins, thet I wun't deny, (For ain't she some related to you 'n' I?) But there's a few small intrists here below Outside the counter o' John Bull an' Co, An' though they can't conceit how 't should be so, I guess the Lord druv down Creation's spiles 160 'thout no _gret_ helpin' from the British Isles, An' could contrive to keep things pooty stiff Ef they withdrawed from business in a miff; I ha'n't no patience with sech swellin' fellers ez Think G.o.d can't forge 'thout them to blow the bellerses.