’TIS noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud; | |
| ’Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood; | |
| When down the road from Marlboro’ we hear a sound of speed— | |
| A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need! | |
| And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood, | 5 |
| Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed. | |
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| The Minute Men of Northboro’ were gathering that day | |
| To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State; | |
| They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say, | |
| Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson’s gate. | 10 |
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| “The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington; | |
| “Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun; | |
| “Upon the common, in the dawn, the redcoat butchers slay; | |
| “On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way; | |
| “We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run: | 15 |
| “All Middlesex and Worcester’s up: Pray God, ours is the day!” | |
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| The Minute Men of Northboro’ let rust the standing plow, | |
| The seed may wait, the fertile ground upsmiling to the spring. | |
| They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now, | |
| At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King. | 20 |
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| The pewter-ware is melted into bullets—long past due, | |
| The flints are picked, the powder’s dry, the rifles shine like new. | |
| Within their Captain’s yard enranked they hear the Parson’s prayer | |
| Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share; | |
| He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true, | 25 |
| For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare. | |
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| The Minute Men of Northboro’ set out with drum and fife; | |
| With shining eyes they’ve blest their babes and bid their wives good-by. | |
| The hands that here release the plow have taken up a strife | |
| That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry. | 30 |
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| At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow; | |
| At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe: | |
| The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide. | |
| Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side. | |
| The British fall: the Minute Men have mixed with bitterest woe | 35 |
| Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride. | |
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| The Minute Men of Northboro’ they boast no martial air; | |
| No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod; | |
| But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare: | |
| They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England’s God. | 40 |
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| The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled, | |
| On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag’s forever furled. | |
| Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor’s prize: | |
| That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise. | |
| A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world | 45 |
| With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes. | |
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| The Minute Men of Northboro’ sit down by Boston town; | |
| They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington. | |
| In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown; | |
| And take the plow again in peace, their warrior’s duty done. | 50 |
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