Original subtitles

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[YAWNS]

It's great to be back in action.

[SNIFFING]

Anybody smell something? Like something burning?

Oh, my gosh! It is burning.

This candle's on fire.

Run for your lives! Fire! Fire!

No, wait. What am I thinking?

I am a fire.

Hey, I just woke up. I'm groggy.

[YAWNS]

So, what's on the agenda tonight?

Oh. A little writing, huh?

Here we go again.

Well, you can count on me, pal.

I'll be your beacon in the night.

So, what do you call this opus you're working on?

"The Landlord's Tale."

Uh...you might want a catchier title.

Hm.

Uh. But we can work that out later.

Mm.

Don't mind me. I'll just read over your shoulder.

"Listen, my children And you shall hear

"Of the midnight ride Of Paul Revere

Hm. Nice opening.

On the 18th of April In '75

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day And year.

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FLAME: He said to his friend

If the British march

By land or sea From the town tonight

Hang a lantern aloft In the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower As a signal light

One if by land Or two if by sea

And I on the opposite Shore will be

Ready to ride And spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex Village And farm

For the country folk to be up And to arm.

FLAME: Then he said Good night.

FLAME: And with muffled oar

Silently rowed to The Charlestown shore

Just as the moon Rose over the bay

Where swinging wide At her moorings lay

The Somerset, British Man-of-war

A phantom ship With each mast And spar

Across the moon Like a prison bar

And a huge black hulk That was magnified

By its own reflection In the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend Through alley and street

Wanders and watches With eager ears

Till in silence around him He hears

The muster of men At the barrack door.

The sound of arms And the tramp of feet

And the measured tread Of the grenadiers

Marching down to their boats On the shore.

[GASPS]

[♪♪♪]

Then he climbed to the tower Of the church

Up the wooden stairs With stealthy tread

To the belfry chamber overhead

And startled the pigeons From their perch

On the somber rafters That round him made

Masses and moving shapes Of shade--

Whoa!

Ow! Up the trembling ladder Steep and tall

To the highest window In the wall

Where he paused to listen And look down

A moment on the roofs Of the town

And the moonlight flowing Over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard Lay the dead

In their night encampment On the hill

Wrapped in silence So deep and still

That he could hear Like a sentinel's tread

The watchful night wind As it went

Creeping along From tent to tent

And seeming to whisper "All is well!"

[GULPS]

A moment only He feels the spell

Of the place and the hour And the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry And the dead

For suddenly all his thoughts Are bent

On a shadowy something far away

Where the river widens To meet the bay.

A line of black That bends and floats

On the rising tide Like a bridge of boats.

Oh, my gosh!

Meanwhile, impatient to mount And ride

Booted and spurred With a heavy stride

On the opposite shore Walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side

Now gazed at the landscape Far and near

Then impetuous Stamped the earth

And turned and tightened His saddle girth.

But mostly he watched With eager search

The belfry tower of The Old North Church

As it rose above the graves On the hill

Lonely and spectral and somber And still.

And lo! as he looks On the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam Of light!

That would be yours truly.

He springs to the saddle The bridle he turns

But lingers and gazes Till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry Burns.

[♪♪♪]

He's my twin brother.

I'm the cute one.

Yeah, right.

One if by land or two if by sea.

[WHINNIES]

[♪♪♪]

The British are coming! The British are coming!

FLAME: A hurry of hooves In a village street

A shape in the moonlight A bulk in the dark

And beneath, from the pebbles In passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed Flying fearless and fleet.

The British are coming!

That was all! And yet, through The gloom and the light

The fate of a nation was riding That night

And the spark struck out by That steed, in his flight

Kindled the land into flame With its heat.

I like the part about the flame. Good stuff.

He has left the village And mounted the steep

And beneath him Tranquil and broad and deep

Is the Mystic Meeting the ocean tides

And under the alders That skirt its edge

Now soft on the sand Now loud on the ledge

Is heard the tramp of his steed As he rides.

It was 12 by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge Into Medford town.

He heard the crowing Of the cock

[CROWS]

And the barking Of the farmer's dog

[BARKING]

And felt the damp Of the river fog

That rises after the sun Goes down.

The British are coming! The British are coming!

[♪♪♪]

The British are coming!

It was 1 by the village clock

When he galloped Into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight As he passed

And the meeting-house windows Blank and bare

Gaze at him with A spectral glare

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would Look upon.

The British are coming! [BELL RINGING]

It was 2 by the village clock

When he came to the bridge In Concord town.

The British are coming! The British are coming!

[SHEEP BLEATING]

He heard the bleating Of the flock

And the twitter of birds Among the trees

And felt the breath Of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadows brown.

The British are coming! The British are coming!

And one was safe and asleep In his bed

Who at the bridge would be First to fall

Who that day would be Lying dead

Pierced by a British Musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read

How the British Regulars Fired and fled

How the farmers gave them Ball for ball

From behind each fence And farmyard wall

Chasing the redcoats Down the lane

Then crossing the fields To emerge again

Under the trees at the turn Of the road

And only pausing To fire and load.

So through the night Rode Paul Revere

And so through the night Went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village And farm.

The British are coming! The British are coming!

A cry of defiance And not of fear

A voice in the darkness A knock at the door

And a word that shall echo For evermore!

For, borne on the night-wind Of the Past

Through all our history To the last

In the hour of darkness And peril and need

The people will waken And listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats Of that steed

And the midnight message Of Paul Revere.

"By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow."

We're finished. All right!

Nice poem, Hank.

There's just one thing to fix.

The title's still a little weak.

"The Landlord's Tale" just doesn't cut it.

Hm.

How about something exciting?

Something like, "Night Of The Flame,"

or "The Light In The Tower Window" or--

"Paul Revere's Ride."

Yeah.

"Paul Revere's Ride." Perfect!

Well, glad I could help brighten up your night.

And remember...

[YAWNS]

if you ever need me again, just ring.

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[BELLS RINGING]

[WHINNIES]

[♪♪♪]

ALL: Ciao, America!