THE FOREST TREES.
Up with your heads, ye sylvan lords,
Wave proudly in the breeze;
For our cradle bands and coffin boards,
Must come from the forest trees.
Wave proudly in the breeze;
For our cradle bands and coffin boards,
Must come from the forest trees.
We bless ye for your summer shade,
When our weak limbs fail and tire;
Our thanks are due for your winter aid,
When we pile the bright log fire.
When our weak limbs fail and tire;
Our thanks are due for your winter aid,
When we pile the bright log fire.
Oh! where would be our rule on the sea,
And the fame of the sailor band;
Were it not for the oak and cloud-crown'd pine,
That spring on the quiet land?
And the fame of the sailor band;
Were it not for the oak and cloud-crown'd pine,
That spring on the quiet land?
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