Happy Patriot's Day!!

[jesus marion joseph]

Here in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, today is a bona fide day off for state employees and most normal folks, too. It's Patriot's Day, so all you patriots go fly your flag and fire off a few rounds in honor of the minutemen. Unless you've been unable to obtain a FID card from your local police department, in which case you should shoot off a firecracker. No, wait, those are illegal in Massachusetts. Yell BANG! real loud, but not so loud as to cause a panic and get you arrested for disorderly conduct.

Live free or die! Oh, wait, that's New Hampshire......

[Mingus]

Here in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, today is a bona fide day off for state employees and most normal folks, too. It's Patriot's Day, so all you patriots go fly your flag and fire off a few rounds in honor of the minutemen. Unless you've been unable to obtain a FID card from your local police department, in which case you should shoot off a firecracker. No, wait, those are illegal in Massachusetts. Yell BANG! real loud, but not so loud as to cause a panic and get you arrested for disorderly conduct.

Live free or die! Oh, wait, that's New Hampshire......

Eat dim sum in Chinatown. Smoke one along the Charles. Catch the end of the marathon. Go see the Sox.

Go back to work.

[bostontricky]

[cookie]

Patriot's Day is also celebrated in Maine. I associate it with the Boston Marathon, the beginning of baseball, and the sign that "mud season" may soon pass.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-

One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."


Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where Swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.


Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.


Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.


Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.


Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.


A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.


It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
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
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.


It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow 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.


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 redcoats down the lane,
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
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 forever more!
For, borne on the nightwind of the Past,
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.

I absolutely loved this poem as a child. Paul Revere was one of our favorites to act out when we were playing.

Happy Patriot's Day!

[Monte Smith]

I suppose it is only a coincidence that it is also Army Day in Iran.

...


Hey, is there duckweed on the river at Concord yet?

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

[Dr Dave]

Here in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, today is a bona fide day off for state employees and most normal folks, too. It's Patriot's Day, so all you patriots go fly your flag and fire off a few rounds in honor of the minutemen. Unless you've been unable to obtain a FID card from your local police department, in which case you should shoot off a firecracker. No, wait, those are illegal in Massachusetts. Yell BANG! real loud, but not so loud as to cause a panic and get you arrested for disorderly conduct.

Live free or die! Oh, wait, that's New Hampshire......

There isn't any more Narragansett Beer, either.

[Pete C]

[bostontricky]

If you can get your ass out of bed and over to Lexington by 5:30 AM (4:00 AM if you want a front row seat), there's the annual reenactment of the battle of Lexington Green.



Later on in the morning, the dog and pony show heads up the pike to Concord...

[hornplayer]

Patriot's Day is also celebrated in Maine. I associate it with the Boston Marathon, the beginning of baseball, and the sign that "mud season" may soon pass.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-

One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."


Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where Swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.


Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.


Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.


Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.


Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.


A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.


It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
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
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.


It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow 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.


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 redcoats down the lane,
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
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 forever more!
For, borne on the nightwind of the Past,
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.

I absolutely loved this poem as a child. Paul Revere was one of our favorites to act out when we were playing.

Happy Patriot's Day!

and right back at everyone who already knew what it is! Cookie, I thought I was the only geek who knew all the words to that one! I used to do it as a dramatic reading, and when I lived behind the Old North Church (for almost 5 years) parts of it would go through my head almost daily!

[jesus marion joseph]

I can't believe those Brits line up for the slaughter *every year*! Haw!

[Monte Smith]

I can't believe those Brits line up for the slaughter *every year*! Haw!

Not to be unpatriotic, but I can't believe the colonials never see it coming. You know, prepare. Maybe buy a gun that doesn't shoot balls.

[Dr Dave]

Not to be unpatriotic, but I can't believe the colonials never see it coming. You know, prepare. Maybe buy a gun that doesn't shoot balls.

"My very first pistol was a cap-and-ball Colt
Fires fast as lightning but it loads a mite slow
Loads a mite slow, I soon found out
Get you into trouble but it can't get you out..."

Steve Earle

[Monte Smith]

"My very first pistol was a cap-and-ball Colt
Fires fast as lightning but it loads a mite slow
Loads a mite slow, I soon found out
Get you into trouble but it can't get you out..."

Steve Earle

Dave, you didn't say "Hit it, boys!"

We have rules in these parts.

[Scott Dolan]

Not to be unpatriotic, but I can't believe the colonials never see it coming. You know, prepare. Maybe buy a gun that doesn't shoot balls.

Guns don't shoot balls, people shoot balls.

[jesus marion joseph]

Maybe buy a gun that doesn't shoot balls.

Those types of guns are illegal and, therefor, unpatriotic.

[Monte Smith]

Guns don't shoot balls, people shoot balls.

I expect such insensitive and ignorant remarks from someone who doesn't live in a Commonwealth, as jmj and I do.

[Scott Dolan]

I expect such insensitive and ignorant remarks from someone who doesn't live in a Commonwealth, as jmj and I do.

Yeah???!!!

Well, the day I live in a place with a cut-rate ambulance chaser and a satanic right-winger like yourself is the day I'll............I'll................

.......................

SO THERE!!!!!

[Monte Smith]

SO THERE!!!!!

I know you have up and moved to Mississourpi, or whatever, but I'm going down to Florida next Saturday and I am going to cast aspersions at the dumbest person I find there (providing they are not your size) and pretend it is you.

Why can't you be a patriot?!?

[Scott Dolan]

I'm going down to Florida next Saturday and I am going to cast aspersions at the dumbest person I find there

Hahahaha...........you're going to be a very busy man!!!

Why can't you be a patriot?!?

Eat me, commie!!!

[Monte Smith]

Hahahaha...........you're going to be a very busy man!!!

Nah, it'll probably be one of the relatives I am staying with.

But as for eating commie, I do love Cuban food!

[Scott Dolan]

I can't believe I made it through this day without Gary yelling at me for being a fascist!!

[jesus marion joseph]

Yeah???!!!

Well, the day I live in a place with a cut-rate ambulance chaser and a satanic right-winger like yourself is the day I'll............I'll................

.......................

SO THERE!!!!!

If it makes you feel any better, Monte and I live in *different* commonwealths, his being Virginia, IIRC.

Which reminds me, is Virginia still for lovers these days? It was when I lived in Virgina Beach as a kid.

[cookie]

Sure, VA is for lovers---unless they're gay.


Hornplayer: Back in the day, I used to be able to recite it. I had picture books about Paul Revere. I was just obsessed with the American revolution. However, I didn't post Longfellow's poem from memory. I needed to use good ol' cut 'n' paste.

[GoodSpeak]

Happy Patriot's Day!!




Huzzah!

[jesus marion joseph]

Happy Patriot's Day!!




Huzzah!

Wow, the *original* Patriots logo. Good get, Goody!

[GoodSpeak]

Wow, the *original* Patriots logo. Good get, Goody!

Goody shoots...he scores!!!!

[Monte Smith]

Which reminds me, is Virginia still for lovers these days?

It bothers me that nobody knows the second half of that formulation, "Virginia is for lovers." I guess they do print it pretty small on the bumperstickers. But the full expression is "Virginia is for lovers...your other 49 loser states are for fucking wankers."

[jesus marion joseph]

It bothers me that nobody knows the second half of that formulation, "Virginia is for lovers." I guess they do print it pretty small on the bumperstickers. But the full expression is "Virginia is for lovers...your other 49 loser states are for fucking wankers."

They don't make bumpers as big as they used to.

[Scott Dolan]

If it makes you feel any better, Monte and I live in *different* commonwealths, his being Virginia, IIRC.

Oh goody, the scourge is spreading.