The Old Farms

Desert ye not the old farms,

     The choice old country spots;

The sunny, sloping hillsides,

     The waving meadow lots.

Cast not away, my children

     The file work of your sires;

Crowd not the stifling cities

     To feed ambitious fires.

Desert ye not the homestead,

     In this mad rush for wealth;

Preserve your rare old birth-place,

     Preserve your rugged health.

O, can ye stand by children,

     And raise no outcry when

The old home, ‘neath the hammer

     Falls to these foreign men?

How think ye, careless children,

     This direful state will end?

What think ye of the future,

     My freedom loving friend?

Then wake ye to the peril,

     The swarming mob behold!

Preserve the farm and fireside

     To shelter you when old.

Oct. 6, ‘92

Pub. in B. Courier,

  June 10, ‘94