It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford[310] town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock 95 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. 100 It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord[311] town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. 110 You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 115 Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm 120 To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 125 Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 130 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- On Apuleius's Golden Ass,[312] Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,[313] Witch astride of a human back, 5 Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,[314]-- The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 10 By the women of Marblehead!