*The USS Constitution* *fires a 17-gun salute in Boston Harbor, on July 4 2014. The Constitution*, *also known as* “*Old Ironsides,’’* *is the world's* *oldest* *ship still afloat. She was launched in 1797, one of* *six original frigates* *authorized for construction by the* *Naval Act of 1794* *and the third constructed.*
*The ship* *is most noted for its effectiveness against the British during the* *War of 1812*.
She is now a museum ship, albeit fully commissioned by the Navy. Her crew of 75 officers and sailors participate in ceremonies, educational programs and special events while keeping her open to visitors year round and providing free tours.. She is usually berthed at Pier 1 of the former Charlestown Navy Yard at one end of Boston's *Freedom Trail. Go see her.*

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon’s roar;—

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

Or know the conquered knee;—

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every thread-bare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,—

The lightning and the gale!

— “Old Ironsides,’’ by Boston physician, poet and essayist Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (1809-1894)

*“The Great Gale” (hurricane) of Sept. 23, 1815 as it hit Providence, R.I. Oliver Wendell Holmes’s poem is about that memorable day.*

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder --
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p'taters
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept--
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches --
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,--
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them!
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!