From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown, From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne, From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings, (Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings). From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city, And swelled with importance, disdains the committee; (But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes, What the devil care we where the devil he goes.) From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains, From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains, Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap) He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map. From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears. I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayers That we, disunited, may freemen be still, And Britain go on--to be damn'd if she will. 1775 [Illustration] [Illustration] PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good-night," and with muffled oar Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay [Illustration] The _Somerset_, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he clim'd the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.