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338 Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of
 * the earth!

The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to
 * see!

Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear
 * of it!

Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of
 * mist!

Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's
 * shoulders!

What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all
 * this chattering of bare gums?

Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake
 * your crutches for fire-locks, and level
 * them?

If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see
 * the President's marshal,

If you groan such groans you might balk the government
 * cannon.

For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed
 * arms, and let your white hair be,

Here gape your smart grand-sons—their wives gaze
 * at them from the windows,

See how well-dressed—see how orderly they conduct
 * themselves.

Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
 * retreating?

Is this hour with the living too dead for you?