Bunker Hill and Other Poems

Project Gutenberg EBook The Poetical Works of O. W. Holmes,
Volume 8. Bunker Hill and Other Poems
#22 in our series by Oliver
Wendell Holmes, Sr.
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Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Volume 8.
Bunker Hill and Other Poems
Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Release Date: January, 2005 [Etext #7395]
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0. START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF O.
W. HOLMES, V8 ***
This eBook was produced by David Widger [[email protected]
]
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
VOL. III
CONTENTS:
BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE
AT
THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874
"LUCY."
FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875
HYMN
FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF
GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM,
OCTOBER 7, 1875
A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR.
SAMUEL G. HOWE
JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.
OLD
CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875
WELCOME TO THE NATIONS,
PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876
A FAMILIAR LETTER

UNSATISFIED
HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET
AN
APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"
THE FIRST FAN
To R.
B. H.
THE SHIP OF STATE
A FAMILY RECORD
BUNKER-HILL BATTLE
AND OTHER POEMS
1874-1877

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the
achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls"; When I
talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,
To you the words
are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.
I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's
hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still; But a deadly chill comes
o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay
bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us
warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:
"Child," says grandma, "what 's the matter, what is all this noise and
clatter?
Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once
more?"
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,
To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:
She had seen
the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the
Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For
I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There
can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- For a minute then
I started. I was gone the live-long day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;
Down my
hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your
ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely,
helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels!
In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the
Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of

women round him,-it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with
the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people; The
pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair. Just across
the narrow river--oh, so close it made me shiver!-- Stood a fortress on
the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,
Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were
dumb Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,
And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS
COME!
The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,
And our
heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a
figure tall and stately