A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA PARTY. BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. No! never such a draught was poured Since Hebe served with nectar The bright Olympians and their Lord, Her over-kind protector; Since Father Noah squeezed the grape And took to such behaving, As would have shamed our grandsire ape, Before the days of shaving; No! ne'er was mingled such a draught, In palace, hall, or arbor, As freemen brewed, and tyrants quaffed, That night in Boston harbor! It kept King George so long awake, His brain at last got addled, It made the nerves of Britain shake With seven score millions saddled; Before that bitter cup was drained Amid the roar of cannon, The western war-cloud's crimson stained The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon; Full many a six-foot grenadier The flattened grass had measured, And many a mother many a year Her tearful memories treasured. Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall, The mighty realms were troubled, The storm broke loose, but first of all The Boston tea-pot bubbled! An evening party,--only that, No formal invitation, No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat, No feast in contemplation; No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band, No flowers, no songs, no dancing! A tribe of red men,--axe in hand,-- Behold the guests advancing! How fast the stragglers join the throng, From stall and work-shop gathered; The lively barber skips along And leaves a chin half-lathered; The smith has flung his hammer down, The horse-shoe still is glowing, The truant tapster at the Crown Has left a beer-cask flowing; The coopers' boys have dropped the adze, And trot behind their master; Up run the tarry ship-yard lads;-- The crowd is hurrying faster. Out from the mill-pond's purlieus gush, The streams of white-faced millers, And down their slippery alleys rush The lusty young Fort-Hillers. The rope-walk lends its 'prentice crew, The Tories seize the omen; "Ay, boys! you'll soon have work to do For England's rebel foemen, 'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang, That fire the mob with treason,-- When these we shoot, and those we hang, The town will come to reason." On--on to where the tea-ships ride! And now their ranks are forming,-- A rush and up the Dartmouth's side, The Mohawk band is swarming! See the fierce natives! what a glimpse Of paint and fur and feather, As all at once the full-grown imps Light on the deck together! A scarf the pig-tail's secret keeps, A blanket hides the breeches,-- And out the cursed cargo leaps, And overboard it pitches!