My pen and the trumpet-flowers,

And Washingtons armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.

Yankee Doodle, my Darling! It is you against the British,

Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.

What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.

Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.

Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!

Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the

house-top

Through Fathers spy-glass.

The red city, and the blue, bright water,

And puffs of smoke which you made.

Twenty miles away,

Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,

But the smoke was white -- white!

To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red --

And I cannot see you fighting,

But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,

And Myra sings Yankee Doodle at her milking.

The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,

And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.

II

The City of Falling Leaves

Leaves fall,

Brown leaves,

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