Ode To Brown Beauty; If that be Her Name
Below is a poem honoring the small mare that carried Paul Revere on April 18, 1775. She’s become a legend, known as Brown Beauty. For Puritans, Congregationalists, and Unitarians, naming possessions was practically idolatry.
Paul Revere gave two depositions of his exploits on the night of the 18th of April 1775. He spoke kindly of the mare of thirteen hands he rode that famous night. Yet, he never mentioned her name. The mare’s home, the Deacon Larkin farm, was burned down by the British on June 17, 1775, during the battle of Breed’s Hill. The good deacon moved eighty miles away, absent one wonderful mare and records that may have established her place in history.
This ode below describes the events of that night through the eyes of that wonderful mare, lost somewhere between Lincoln and Charlestown.
Ode To Brown Beauty, If That Be Her Name
The barn my home
Me, just another farm genome
Hybridized to New England’s natural brome
A whistle, a gesture, a clamor,
Barely an accolade
That is how I came
No congregationalist glorified my name
Three years beyond birth on Larkin’s Farm
Pampered, fed, manicured, washed scrubbed and tethered
No plow in my scheduling
I lived to race, no iron shoes,
The best of hay
To compliment my breeding
In Spring spawned by the pink moon
The thoroughbreds agitated
Deacon Larkin protected me from their heat
My time had come
Though small, I lost to none
Thirty riders all new to me
A minion idolized the belfry
A leap up when the lanterns glazed
One minute that’s all she gave
Two, the answer was declared
At once the race began
But wait, no starting line
No finish
In a minute, all gone
No congrats, no porridge, no winner declared
I sat, then sulked
My delay soon clear
I heard the wooden oars against the harbor tide
The Charles floated Bentley, Richardson and Revere to our side
A determined man skipped over the waves
Deacon Larkin motioned him to me
I be damned!
Lent this evening to a swarvy man
Upon my Narragansett breath
This man, I soon would not forget
His reputation, a smith
A master of the hammer and chisel
But we just met!
He stood five-foot eight
Me? A disrespected 13 hands
The moon, six degrees behind
Cast his giant silhouette
For certain he’d have too firm a grip
Neighhhh, no sway belayed
No imbalance from his girth
His knees nudged my ribs
Spurs not engaged
Reigns released
I chose the gait!
So pleased I had his faith
Galloped north to the Mystic path
He would have directed just the same
Not a single word!
On a mare, he knew best!
His metered breath fell on my mane
Like a metronome, gave me the pace
We rode six miles, came face to face
Two Lobster-backs in Medford place
I would not subvert by rearing back
Those large English ponies proud to parade
The first, pranced high on ice
Horseshoes betrayed a grip as one might
Into the spring mud, not seen again that night
His stablemate, too heavy, too old, chose to abdicate
I picked up speed to Lexington Green
Greeted and treated as if I’d won
Some water, but not a moment to graze
To the yellow house, he pointed, I aimed
Met sergeant Munroe, his fidelity in vain
“You’ll have noise soon enough,” Mr. Revere exclaimed
Two men, two women, nine militiamen apprised
Dawes, his horse, Paul and I
Rode to finish our rebel ride
At Lincoln town a rider in stride
A thoroughbred who made great time
Showed much too much interest in mine
Restless as his rider for relief
Two similar yearnings.
One man, one breed
On a medical mission he exclaimed
A bend to protect a Lexington dame?
Confirmed, a Son of Liberty,
A Concord doctor merely twenty-five
We moved as a group with Dawes a heavy ride
Three men, three horse, in single file.
Assaulted in Lincoln by the kings twelve elite
Out from their ambush in scarlet coatee,
White pants, leather gaiters
Silver pistols gleaming
Their swords unscheathing
Major with tunic asked his name
A moment reprieve for me
I smelled the young grass
I saw the fresh flowers
And heard the rush of water four beats away
Dawes and Prescott made good their escape
Over the wall,
Down the dark road, each echoed
“Put on, Put on,”
Saw their surtouts fade as they begone
I was distracted
My dear huguenot and I,
Far too exposed
No less, a sergeant, ensign, Lieutenant,
and major blocked our flight
Fulfilling orders from across the great river “These Rebels need to bow to the crown”
A pistol against Mr. Revere’s temple
Major Mitchell demanded to what matters
Facing death, no weapons for defense,
He turned to what he had left,
A distraction, a hesitation, a Major diversion
My lips snickered with pride at his inversion
“Dear Captain, fire away
Bring on 500 hundred men from Lexington way”
The good major, his conduct broke, or duty called?
Paul ordered to dismount
Replaced by sarge, a heavy remount
All Brits raced to warn the brigade
My master left with little recourse,
Walked back the way he came.
Not done yet! a third act remains
Hancock & Adams warned at midnight
They lingered till first light
I stood facing farmers in the green
Mr. Hancock, he wished to fight
Now Revere, Dawes and Adams fed his pride
On to Philadelphia. John, your history is incomplete!
Direct that charge, Confront that King
John, concerned with his enormous trunk
Stored at the Buckman on the green
Inside a salmon to entertain and two seditious scrolls
500 Sons of Liberty, 14,000 militiamen enrolled
There he was, Revere appeared
He dragged the trunk
700 Brown Bess in his rear
A first shot,
Many more, a charge, then shouts,
A pursuit to Concord,
Then a turn-about
Fifteen hours now,
No fresh hay, or water to spare
To Menotomy the sarge rode rough,
What a growly contrast.
Enough!
Untested, exposed, this heavyweight in red
Drained my stamina rushing about
I bucked, plunged my mane, Kicked up dust
Luckily he had no spurs,
His hob-nobbed shoes abused
He soon found his best
A fist punched my jowls the other whipped my bridle
A waste of time, I had nothing left
Musket balls rattled my ears
Two cannon exploded in my rear
Mane singed, eyes blind, lung concussed
Beyond my wind,
The Lobsterback, he lost his grip
My load refined,
A brief respite
I knew no way home
My mind galloped into the flight zone
A one way trip
Four legs confused
Stiffened my gait
Stumbled to my knees
A race I can’t win
Nothing left but a moment before death
Inhaled white smoke
Heaved what was left
New to me this Old Bay path
Hills to my right
Houses inflamed
Trespassed, ransacked
Bloody hands on my reigns,
Desperates clung to my tail
Alas Menotomy Square
I smelled the water
A trough was near
I reared to clear the path
Their hands in the air
I bolted, opposed by bayonets
I slipped, a prick
Neighed in fear
I turned to those in my rear
A hand on each bridle, and on my halter
My tongue compressing, lips plastered
Two teeth unhitched
Five Tonsils swelling
Can’t swallow, can’t breath
Forced back on my quarters,
Can’t rise, though ordered
I smelled the saltpeter
A spark, white smoke, foul taste
Dislodged more teeth,
Lost vision, pains gone
Can’t hear, nor feel
They come again
A pistol, more flame,
I look to the rear
For that man Revere
I Dreamed of one more ride
His balance
His enveloping hands,
Those guiding knees
His breath on my mane
I hope I pleased
We worked so close
So fast, so urgently
He knew me as a mare of 13 hands
An American hybrid to forage in snow
Able in a day to reach any borough
Maneuver on any road
No flu, stomach woes, or arthritic legs
immune to New England maladies
I outclassed those English ponies on this special day
At my peak, my time came
Left with one regret
He knew not my name
twice he’d write my epitaph
By his pen, a mare with no name