Why this is indeed a show⁠—it has called the dead out of the earth! The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cock’d 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 firelocks 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 toss’d arms, and let your white hair be, Here gape your great-grandsons, their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dress’d, see how orderly they conduct themselves.