That all the meadow hay was filled with swale,
His cherished wood-lot stripped for tie and rail,
That all the pasture-lots were choked with brush,
The meadow lowlands grown to reed and rush;
If he could see the ancient orchard's rows
Of stately trees uprooted by the blows
That strip the rotting shingles from the shed
And shake the crazy rafters overhead,
That raze the gates and fences to the ground,
And scatter direst desolation round;
If he could see the gruesome foreign hordes
That gather round our old-time festal boards,
Who swarm upon these farms and till our fields
And turn our ancient looms and spinning-wheels;
A folk who know no law but fire and steel,
Who do not glory in the nation's weal,
Who cannot speak or write our mother tongue,
Who feel no thrill when freedom's songs are sung,
A class who hate all forms of government
And fill this happy land with discontent;
Ah! well for him his humble life was taken
Before New England homesteads were forsaken.
His cherished wood-lot stripped for tie and rail,
That all the pasture-lots were choked with brush,
The meadow lowlands grown to reed and rush;
If he could see the ancient orchard's rows
Of stately trees uprooted by the blows
That strip the rotting shingles from the shed
And shake the crazy rafters overhead,
That raze the gates and fences to the ground,
And scatter direst desolation round;
If he could see the gruesome foreign hordes
That gather round our old-time festal boards,
Who swarm upon these farms and till our fields
And turn our ancient looms and spinning-wheels;
A folk who know no law but fire and steel,
Who do not glory in the nation's weal,
Who cannot speak or write our mother tongue,
Who feel no thrill when freedom's songs are sung,
A class who hate all forms of government
And fill this happy land with discontent;
Ah! well for him his humble life was taken
Before New England homesteads were forsaken.
'Tis eventide, the shades of night draw near
And one by one the silent stars appear,
Those silver tapers that the angels hold
Above the clouds to view the sleeping wold,
The night-winds faintly whisper as they pass,
A cricket chirps beside me in the grass,
And one by one the silent stars appear,
Those silver tapers that the angels hold
Above the clouds to view the sleeping wold,
The night-winds faintly whisper as they pass,
A cricket chirps beside me in the grass,
154
