_)--
The field o' Lexin'ton, where England tried
The fastest colors thet she ever dyed,--
An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came,
Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,--
Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul
Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll.
They're 'most too fur away, take too much time
To visit often, ef it ain't in rhyme;
But there'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 loiter there while night grows still,
An' in the twinklin' villages about,
Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out,
An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms,
Or muffled cock-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 end, then tries agin;--
My gran'ther's rule was safer'n 't is 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.
The Northwest wind thet twitches at my baird
Blows out o' sturdier 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 chellenge, hums the low reply.
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