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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 ****,
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 for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind 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.

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When armed line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipes did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's huns with their great big guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew.

O' the night fell black and the rifles' crack
Made "Perfidious Abion" reel
'Mid the leaden rail, seven tongues of flame
Did shine o'er the lines of steel.
By each shining blade a prayer was siad
That to Ireland her sons be true,
And when morning broke still the war flag shook
Out its fold in the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the gray North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brugha,
Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Watertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men, but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.

Ah, back through the glen I rode again
and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
whom I never shall see more.
But to and fro in my dreams I go and
I'd kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when
you fell in the foggy dew.

Femme du monde ou bien putain,
Qui bien souvent êtes les mêmes.
Femme normale, star ou boudin,
Femelles en tout genre je vous aime.
Même à la dernière des connes,
Je veux dédier ces quelques vers,
Issus de mon dégoût des hommes,
Et de leur morale guerrière.
Car aucune femme sur la planète,
N' s'ra jamais plus con que son frère,
Ni plus fière, ni plus malhonnête,
A part peut-être Madame Thatcher...

Femme je t'aime parce que,
Lorsque le sport devient la guerre,
Y a pas de gonzesse ou si peu,
Dans les hordes de supporters.
Ces fanatiques, fous-furieux,
Abreuvés de haines et de bières,
Déifiant les crétins en bleu,
Insultant les salauds en vert.
Y a pas de gonzesse hooligan,
Imbécile et meurtrière,
Y'en a pas même en grande Bretagne,
A part bien sûr Madame Thatcher...

Femme je t'aime parce que,
Une bagnole entre les pognes,
Tu n' deviens pas aussi con que,
Ces pauvres tarés qui se cognent,
Pour un phare un peu amoché,
Ou pour un doigt tendu bien haut,
Y'en a qui vont jusqu'à flinguer,
Pour sauver leur autoradio.
Le bras d'honneur de ces cons-là,
Aucune femme n'est assez vulgaire,
Pour l'employer à tour de bras,
A part peut être Madame Thatcher.

Femme je t'aime parce que,
Tu vas pas mourir à la guerre,
Parc' que la vue d'une arme à feu,
Fait pas frissonner tes ovaires.
Parc' que dans les rangs des chasseurs,
Qui dégomment la tourterelle,
Et occasionnellement les Beurs,
J'ai jamais vu une femelle.
Pas une femme n'est assez minable,
Pour astiquer un revolver,
Et se sentir invulnérable,
A part bien sûr Madame Thatcher...

C'est pas d'un cerveau féminin,
Qu'est sortie la bombe atomique,
Et pas une femme n'a sur les mains,
Le sang des indiens d'Amérique.
Palestiniens et arméniens,
Témoignent du fond de leurs tombeaux,
Qu'un génocide c'est masculin,
Comme un SS, un torero.
Dans cette putain d'humanité,
Les assassins sont tous des frères,
Pas une femme pour rivaliser,
A part peut être Madame Thatcher...

Femme je t'aime surtout enfin,
Pour ta faiblesse et pour tes yeux,
Quand la force de l'homme ne tient,
Que dans son flingue ou dans sa queue.
Et quand viendra l'heure dernière,
L'enfer s'ra peuplé de crétins
Jouant au foot ou à la guerre,
A celui qui pisse le plus loin,
Moi je me changerai en chien,
Si je peuxrester sur la Terre,
Et comme réverbère quotidien,
Je m'offrirai Madame Thatcher...