Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow & Illus by Ted Rand

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 still alive who remembers

that famous day and year.

I loved this poem when I was a kid. As a history nerd, I loved the story of Paul Revere, but I also liked the rhythm and cadence of the words that seemed to mimic the galloping hoof beats of the horse.  

And then, I tend to be a fan of Ted Rand's work in general. 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar.

And a huge black hull, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Spying on the powerful British, outwitting the stronger nation, outfighting the best trained fighters in the world--the Revolutionary era is just chockful of romantic, beating the underdog stories. And Paul Revere's story is the linchpin to the successful begin of the war when we beat back the British in Lexington and Concord, inspiring pride and passion on the side of the colonists. 

Those redcoats

Climbing the belfry of the North Chapel

Paul Revere waiting for the light

One if by land, two if by sea

The fate of a nation was riding that night

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at that bridge would be the first to fall

Who that day would be lying dead

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

That first shot "heard round the world" always interested me. No one could pinpoint who shot, which side was the instigator. They just know a shot was fired and a bloody six year long struggle was begun. 

As an adult, there is less romance and more agony in these stories. You understand the cost a little more--the children without fathers, the boys who would never grow up, the lives irretrievably altered by this political disagreement with the King of England. The abstract ideas of men's rights and independence having very real life consequences for a farmer's wife in the small town of Concord. 

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.