The Dear Old Flag
Oh! we love that dear old flag,
That our forefathers gave
Over one hundred years ago, boys,
They once stood under that dear flag,
But now they are in their graves,
Sleeping their everlasting sleep, boys.
The Union forever,
Hurrah, boys, hurrah;
Down with the traitors,
Up with the stars;
For we love that dear old flag
That our fathers fought to save
When they were fighting for our freedom.
We will rally around its standard
Every Fourth day of July,
For we dearly love our nation;
We love to see the stars and stripes
A waving up on high
Over our Union celebration.
Three cheers for the Union
And the red, white and blue,
And our forefathers that formed the constitution;
May the flag forever wave
O'er our native land so true,
May God protect our flag and nation.
Advice To Little Children
Bless those little children
That love to go to school;
Blessed be the children
That obey the golden rule.
Children, love your parents,
For they have cared for you;
When you were little infants
They watched and prayed for you.
Bless those little children
That go to Sabbath school,
For they hear of Jesus,
And learn the golden rule.
Prayed that you might some day
Give a pleasant smile,
Be a comfort in their old age,
And be a loving child.
Now my little children,
Be cheerful in your song,
And make your home an Eden,
For all the day long.
Love your little school-mates,
Be gentle in your play,
Be kind to your teachers,
And their commands obey.
Oh! then you will be happy
In the bright world to come,
For then your friends will love you
Forever, little ones.
Farewell to the old year forever,
And all its sorrows and care
We'll bury in our hearts, and endeavor
New troubles and trials to bear.
The old year has gone with its sadness,
In oblivion to dwell evermore;
The new year will come with its gladness,
To welcome the rich and the poor.
Ah, welcome the new year with pleasure,
And welcome home friends, that is dear;
Be happy and joyful together,
And greet each happy new year.
Some people will meet in sadness,
For death has entered their home,
And robbed them of joy and gladness,
And left them forsaken and lone.
Young people not meet it in sorrow,
For their hearts are blithesome and gay,
Trouble will come with to-morrow,
So let them be happy to- day.
Farewell to the old year forever;
Lay its sorrows aside with a tear.
Think of the future; and endeavor
To greet each happy new year.
Come all ye friends of Liberty,
Who love our good old nation,
Let hands and hearts united be,
And beat the wide creation.
For this is our Centennial year,
The birthday of our nation;
For it is just one hundred years
That's stood our good old nation.
Hurrah to the Centennial;
And many, many people gone
To our national Centennial.
To Philadelphia people went,
And more was sure to go, sir;
They say there was things to be seen
Of a hundred years ago, sir.
Come all ye sons of liberty,
That love our good old nation,
Unite and keep our country free,
And the stars and stripes a waving.
The revolutionary war was fought
To gain our independence,
That we a nation great may be,
Both free and independent.
They fought the British, far and near,
For freedom, and they gained it --
In Centennial years of Jubilee,
Let Columbia's sons maintain it.
Gently On The Stream Of Time
Gently on the stream of time,
We are floating day by day,
In life's native boats sublime
We soon anchor in the bay.
We'll soon anchor in the haven,
Where the weary are at rest,
In that blissful port called Heaven,
Where are roaming now the blest.
Be gentle, time be gentle with us,
While we are on life's troubled stream,
May life's foaming billows o'er us
Break away as day serene.
Gently on the stream of time,
We will swiftly glide along,
Till we reach the realm divine,
Then we'll join the heavenly throng,
Where our friends have gone before us
Waiting on the other shore.
In that home they sing in chorus,
"Welcome home the rich and poor."
Gently on the stream of time,
We shall shortly pass away,
We shall reach the heavenly clime
If God's commands we obey.
Gently on the stream of time
We are going one by one,
Listening to the evening chime
On life's journey going home.
Dear Love, Do You Remember?
Dearest one, do you remember,
As we sat side by side,
How you told me that you loved me,
Asked me to be your bride.
And you told me we'd be happy,
Through all the years to come,
If we ever would prove faithful,
As in the days when we were young.
Oh! how well do I remember,
The kind and loving words,
And now as I sat dreaming,
The thoughts my memory stirs.
But the days have passed before me,
And the scenes of long ago,
But I can never forget the
Days that have passed o'er.
Oh! how clearly I remember
The days when we were young,
How we would tell to each other
Of happy times to come,
And as we would sit together,
That dear loved one and I,
Oh, sat dreaming of the future,
And childhood days gone by.
Dearest love, do you remember
The first time that we met --
Our youthful days have gone, love,
I hope you love me yet,
Now we are growing old, love,
Our heads will soon be gray,
May we ever love each other
Till from earth we pass away.
Little Charlie Hades
Little Charlie Hades has gone
To dwell with God above,
Where live the little angel throng
In perfect peace and love.
His little spirit now is free,
Free from all earthly pain;
His little form no more can be
In the bright earth again.
His little life was short on earth,
Being but three years old;
His little form so full of mirth,
Now the cold earth enfold.
In her embrace she gently keeps
His form she calls her own,
There sweetly sleeping his last sleep,
Quietly all alone.
His laughing eyes of violet blue,
Are closed in deep repose;
His curly hair of coal black hue,
His little head inclose.
In beauty he was bright and fair,
He was his friends' delight;
They miss his footsteps everywhere,
From morning until night.
That innocent voice full of glee,
On earth is heard no more;
That precious soul from sin is free,
And will be evermore.
His parents mourn for Charlie dear,
Their loving little one;
And oft times they will shed a tear
For their little infant son.
Air -- "The Pride of Caldair"
Once there was a little girl
And her friends loved her dear --
Her parents loved their little one,
She did their hearts cheer.
They loved their little darling,
As with them she did roam,
They called her little Susan,
The pride of their home.
Blue eyes had little Susan,
And light flaxen hair,
And she was a pleasant child to see,
So beautiful and fair.
With her parents she will never more
On earth with them roam --
They loved their little Susan,
The pride of their home.
Her parents had more children,
There were nine of them all --
There are eight of them living,
For God but one called.
The flower of their family
God called to his home,
It was their little Susan,
The pride of their home.
Her friends will not forget her,
Though she died years ago --
It was John H. Moore's daughter,
Her age was four years old.
She is waiting in heaven,
Waiting for her friends to come
And be with their little Susan,
The pride of their home.
Be Kind To The Little Ones
Air -- "He Folds Them on His Bosom''
Be kind to all little ones,
All fathers, mothers dear,
Be kind to your little ones,
Their little hearts to cheer.
For oh! you know not how soon
Their place will vacant be;
If God should call one to his home,
Your conscience would be free.
Their little forms are tender,
They're at your mercy now;
They need your kind attention
To watch them every hour.
While they are little infants,
My friends, take time to spare:
Do not forget an instant,
To give them tender care.
God, he never did intend
You to misuse your child;
Their little souls to you he sends
To bless you for awhile.
And if you always will be kind
To them, sweet little ones,
Oh! what a blessing you will find
In after years to come.
You never, never will repent,
Dear friend, for being kind;
Those little ones to you were sent,
And always bear in mind,
That God may call your little ones
And leave you here behind;
Oh! what a happy thought will come --
I always have been kind.
Roll On Time, Roll On
Air -- "Roll on, Silver Moon."
Roll on time, roll on, as it always has done,
Since the time this world first begun;
It can never change my love that I gave a dear man,
Faithful friend, I gave my heart and hand.
Roll on time, roll on, it can never turn back
To the time of my maiden days --
To the time of my youth it can never turn back
When I wandered with my love, bright and gay.
I was happy then as a girl could ever be,
And live on this earth here below --
I was happy as a lark and as busy as a bee,
For in fashion or in style I did not go.
My parents were poor and they could not dress me so,
For they had not got the money to spare,
And it may be better so, for I do not think fine clothes
Make a person any better than they are.
Some people are getting so they think a poor girl,
Though she be bright and intelligent and gay,
She must have nice clothes, or she is nothing in this world,
If she is not dressed in style every day.
Remember never to judge people by their clothes,
For our brave, noble Washington said,
"Honorable are rags, if a true heart they enclose,"
And I found it was the truth when I married.
Spring Time Is Coming
Beautiful Spring is coming,
Ah, yes, will soon be here,
For the clear bright sun is shining
All human hearts to cheer.
One the brightest gems of nature
Is the orb that o'er us shines,
And o'er the wide creation,
It'll shine to the end of time.
The birds will soon be singing
On shrub and bough of trees,
Their notes will soon be ringing
Out, forth so merrily.
They love the merry spring time,
Those little birds we love,
They love the pleasant sunshine
That comes down from above.
We can hear them sweetly singing
From early morn, till night.
They make music in the woodland
Those little birds; so bright,
We should dearly love them,
Those little harmless things,
And when we hear their music,
We know that it is spring.
Ah; it's pleasant in the springtime,
All nature seems so gay.
Bright flowers in the sunshine,
Sweet fragrance can display.
The hills, and dales, and meadows,
So beautifully covered o'er;
With natures richest verdure,
The green grass, as of yore.
The winter will soon be over,
With its cold and chilly winds.
It is sad and dreary ever,
Yet its dying, free from sin.
Now the springtime is coming,
Ah, yes, will soon be here.
We will welcome in its coming
In this glad new year.
One more little spirit to Heaven has flown,
To dwell in that mansion above,
Where dear little angels, together roam,
In God's everlasting love.
One little flower has withered and died,
A bud near ready to bloom,
Its life on earth is marked with pride;
Oh, sad it should die so soon.
Sweet little Libbie, that precious flower
Was a pride in her parents' home,
They miss their little girl every hour,
Those friends that are left to mourn.
Her sweet silvery voice no more is heard
In the home where she once roamed;
Her place is vacant around the hearth,
Where her friends are mourning lone.
They are mourning the loss of a little girl,
With black eyes and auburn hair,
She was a treasure to them in this world,
This beautiful child so fair.
One morning in April, a short time ago,
Libbie was active and gay;
Her Saviour called her, she had to go,
E're the close of that pleasant day.
While eating dinner, this dear little child
Was choked on a piece of beef.
Doctors came, tried their skill awhile,
But none could give relief.
She was ten years of age, I am told,
And in school stood very high.
Her little form now the earth enfolds,
In her embrace it must ever lie.
Her friends and schoolmates will not forget
Little Libbie that is no more;
She is waiting on the shining step,
To welcome home friends once more.
To My Friends And Critics
Come all you friends and critics,
And listen to my song,
A word I will say to you,
It will not take me long,
The people talks about me,
They've nothing else to do
But to criticise their neighbors,
And they have me now in view.
Perhaps they talk for meanness,
And perhaps it is in jest,
If they leave out their freeness
It would suit me now the best,
To keep the good old maxim
I find it hard to do,
That is to do to others
As you wish them do to you.
Perhaps you've read the papers
Containing my interview;
I hope you kind good people
Will not believe it true.
Some Editors of the papers
They thought it would be wise
To write a column about me,
So they filled it up with lies.
The papers have ridiculed me
A year and a half or more.
Such slander as the interview
I never read before.
Some reporters and editors
Are versed in telling lies.
Others it seems are willing
To let industry rise.
The people of good judgment
Will read the papers through,
And not rely on its truth
Without a candid view.
My first attempt at literature
Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,
I wrote that book without a thought
Of the future, or of fame.
Dear Friends, I write for money,
With a kind heart and hand,
I wish to make no Enemies
Throughout my native land.
Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,
And lay my pen aside,
Between me and my critics
I leave you to decide.
Sketch Of Lord Byron's Life
"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.
The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.
Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.
He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.
Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.
Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.
He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.
In the year eighteen seventy-six,
A Fourth of July celebration
Was held in Grand Rapids city
In honor to our nation.
The largest city in the county of Kent,
Is this city, and it is respected,
For thousands of people was here to see
The beautiful arch erected.
The Centennial arch on Campau Place
Was the most principal feature;
It was a grand beautiful sight
To all human sensitive creatures;
To all the people that loved to read
The mottoes on it painted,
The engravings, too, and tell
What each one represented.
The paintings and mottoes on the arch
Was viewed by many people;
It was Colonel Joseph Penney's design,
And his work could not be equalled.
Mr. C. H. Gifford was architect,
He formed the noble structure,
A memento to the Centennial year,
A pride of our nation's culture.
A cabin was built, too, I believe,
That nicely represented
One that the traders built years ago,
This was the only one invented.
Ten thousand people respected it,
This token of early years, with pay;
The honor of this little hut
Was due to Mr. Godfroy.
The stars and stripes was honored, too,
For from a thousand windows waving,
That dear old flag, red, white and blue,
That's loved throughout our nation:
That same flag for one hundred years
Has waved over our nation;
May God let it forever wave
Over our Union celebration.
The people in the city, friends,
Was an honor to our nation,
For they all joined heart and hand
In our Union celebration.
Some gave money, other labor,
To maintain what was intended.
It was a success, some people said,
Who here that day attended.
That day will never be forgot
By the people of Kent county,
God bless the people who joined that day
In the honor of our country.
The people in the city, friends,
Dearly loved this nation,
For they saved no time or expense
In our Centennial celebration.
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
"Old Hickory" was their friend.
As a President o'er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The "hero" of "New Orleans."
Air -- "In the Cottage by the Sea"
Come listen to a painful story
A mother is going to tell,
For her heart is over-flowing
For that one she loved so well.
It's of a little infant daughter,
Mild and lovely, bright and fair --
She has left this world forever,
Left this world of grief and care.
Alone, all alone
In the grave yard she is sleeping,
That little one we loved so well --
God her little soul is keeping,
For he doeth all things well.
Oh! how sadly we'll remember,
On a bright and pleasant day --
It was the very last of summer
That her spirit fled away;
Fled away from earth forever,
Gone to dwell with Him above,
Where little angels dwell together
In His everlasting love.
Oh! we miss our little Minnie,
With blue eyes and flaxen hair --
Oh, we loved our little Minnie,
And we miss her every where;
Yes, we miss her at the table
Every morning, noon and night,
While she sat with us together,
For she was our heart's delight.
On the twenty-fifth of August,
Eighteen hundred and seventy-three,
God he called her then to leave us,
And a parting had to be.
As the day it was declining,
The sun was down behind the trees,
Little Minnie she was dying,
Her little soul it had to leave.
Left this world of earthly trouble
And her friends that loved her dear,
Father, mother, sister, brother,
Her place with them is vacant here.
Her little soul is at rest forever
In our Father's heavenly home,
Her little form is sweetly sleeping
In the cold and silent tomb.
Oh! she was our eldest daughter,
She was handsome to behold --
Every one that knew her loved her,
And her age was four years old.
And we miss her merry laughter,
Through the house she used to roam --
That little one, we'll not forget her
In our dear and loving home.
Oh! how oft-times we have kissed her
And caressed her little form --
God of heaven knows we loved her
From the day that she was born.
On a day of independence,
Eighteen hundred and sixty-nine,
God he gave to us a present
Of that little girl so fine.
The Brave Page Boys
Air -- "The Fierce Discharge"
In the late rebellion war,
Grand Rapids did send out
As brave and noble volunteers
As ever went down south:
Among them were the brave Page boys --
Five brothers there were in all;
They enlisted and went down south,
To obey their country's call.
John S. Page was the eldest son --
He went down south afar,
And enlisted in the Mechanics,
And served his time in the war.
Fernando Page the second son;
Served in the Infantry;
He was wounded, lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege.
Charles F. Page was a noble son --
In sixty-four did enlist,
And in the same year he was killed
In the fight of the Wilderness.
This brave boy was carrying the flag,
To cheer his comrades on.
He fought in the Eight Infantry;
Now he, brave boy, is gone.
'Tis said of this brave soldier boy --
'Twas just before he died --
Stood the flag standard in the ground,
Laid down by it and died.
The friends that loved this noble boy,
How sad were they to hear
Of his death on a battle field;
His age was twenty years.
James B. Page was a fine young man --
He went in the artillery;
He served his time with all the rest,
To keep his country free.
Enos Page the youngest brother --
Made five sons in one family,
Went from Grand Rapids, here.
His age was fourteen years --
When Enos Page went from his home,
He was only a boy, you know;
He stole away from his mother dear,
For he was bound to go.
She followed him to the barracks twice,
And took him home again;
She found it was no use -- at last
With friends let him remain.
In Eight Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned --
Effects cannot outgrow;
In northern Alabama, I hear,
There came this dreadful blow.
How joyful were the parents of
Those noble soldier boys,
There was one missing of the five,
When they returned from war.
The one that carried the Union flag
Lies in a Southern grave,
The other brothers came back home
To Grand Rapids, their native place.
AIR -- "The Drunkard"
Come listen, friends, and hear a song,
It is a doleful one,
About a young man, dead and gone --
He died far away from home.
John Robinson this young man's name,
His age I cannot tell,
And he was loved by all his friends,
And he was known full well.
His father and mother being dead,
It left him an orphan boy,
When he was with his brother
His health failed him, poor boy.
Kind friends they thought 'twould do him good
To travel for his health;
To California he did go
With his Uncle Zera French.
He was not gone but a short time
When a letter his friends received;
It told how homesick Johnny was,
How he for home did grieve.
It said that he was getting worse,
And his money was nearly gone,
And if he did not soon return
Never more would he see home.
It said, "Dear Brother, will you please
Some money to me send,
For I fear I have not got enough
To bring me back again.
The doctor says I must soon return,
If I wish my home to see,
For if I stay my life is short,
For the air disagrees with me."
His brother Will the letter read,
It made his eyes grow dim.
"Dear brother, he shall soon return,
For I will go and fetch him."
This brother dear was very kind;
With money, he went with haste
For to bring him home again,
But Oh! he went too late.
For he was sick, and very bad --
Poor boy, he thought, no doubt,
If he came home in a smoking car
His money would hold out.
He started to come back alone --
He came one-third the way --
One evening in the car alone
His spirit fled away.
No friend was near to speak to him,
Or hear his dying moan;
How sad, how sad it must have been
To die there all alone;
No loving friends to soothe his brow,
Or ease his weary form;
Poor soul, poor soul is now at rest,
For his soul to heaven has gone.
Telegraph dispatch was sent his friends --
How sad were they to hear --
How their loved one died all alone,
In a car with no one near.
The brother brought his body home
To his friends that loved him best.
He's sleeping in their grave yard now
Let peace be e'er his rest.
The Author's Early Life
I will write a sketch of my early life,
It will be of childhood day,
And all who chance to read it,
No criticism, pray.
My childhood days were happy,
And it fills my heart with woe,
To muse o'er the days that have passed by
And the scenes of long ago.
In the days of my early childhood,
Kent county was quite wild,
Especially the towns I lived in
When I was a little child.
I will not speak of my birthplace,
For if you will only look
O'er the little poem, My Childhood Days,
That is in this little book.
I am not ashamed of my birthright,
Though it was of poor estate,
Many a poor person in our land
Has risen to be great.
My parents were poor, I know, kind friends,
But that is no disgrace;
They were honorable and respected
Throughout my native place.
My mother was an invalid,
And was for many a year,
And I being the eldest daughter
Her life I had to cheer.
I had two little sisters,
And a brother which made three,
And dear mother being sickly,
Their care it fell on me.
My parents moved to Algoma
Near twenty-three years ago,
And bought one hundred acres of land,
That's a good sized farm you know.
It was then a wilderness,
With tall forest trees abound,
And it was four miles from a village,
Or any other town.
And it was two miles from a schoolhouse,
That's the distance I had to go,
And how many times I traveled
Through summer suns and winter snow.
How well do I remember
Going to school many a morn,
Both in summer and in winter,
Through many a heavy storm.
My heart was gay and happy,
This was ever in my mind,
There is better times a coming,
And I hope some day to find
Myself capable of composing.
It was by heart's delight,
To compose on a sentimental subject
If it came in my mind just right.
If I went to school half the time,
It was all that I could do;
It seems very strange to me sometimes,
And it may seem strange to you.
It was natural for me to compose,
And put words into rhyme,
And the success of my first work
Is this little song book of mine.
My childhood days have passed and gone,
And it fills my heart with pain
To think that youth will nevermore
Return to me again.
And now kind friends, what I have wrote,
I hope you will pass o'er,
And not criticise as some have done,
The Burial In The Snow
How well do I remember
Of a burial in the snow,
On a winter's evening
Some fifteen years ago;
The ground was covered over
With the beautiful crystal snow,
And it glistened in the moonlight,
Like diamonds all aglow.
It was a pleasant evening,
That merry Christmas eve;
And I never can forget, how
The frost hung on the tree.
The moon was shining clearly,
And the sleigh-bells rang so sweet;
Ah, it was splendid sleighing,
The snow was two feet deep.
My grandparents were living
Some two miles then away,
My parents went to see them,
To spend the holiday.
I went with my kind parents,
For the evening was sublime,
To see dear aunts and uncles,
And have a merry time,
I saw the beaming faces
Of my grandparents dear,
As they met us on the door-step,
With welcome words of cheer.
In fancy I can see them
As in the days of yore,
When they welcome home their children
Through the old familiar door.
The banquet board that evening,
Was filled with cake and wine,
Delicious fruits and oysters
That came from foreign clime.
It was a merry party
That met once more to roam,
My grandparents were happy,
Their children were all home.
Grandpapa said, "dear children,
Lay the tea things aside,
And some of you get ready
To take a pleasant ride.
The moon is shining clearly,
The evening is sublime,
O'er the crystal snow we'll glide,
And have a jolly time."
Hats and cloaks were soon put on,
By those who wish to go,
They were wrapped up snug and warm,
For a sleigh ride o'er the snow.
Their hearts were light and gleeful,
They rode away with ease,
I never can forget them,
Or that merry Christmas eve.
On that beautiful evening,
They rode five miles away,
O'er hills, and dales, and frozen snow,
With prospects bright and gay.
They came to their journey's end,
And soon were homeward bound,
A more joyous, happy band
Was nowhere to be found,
The merry sleigh bells ringing
Out on the midnight air,
And merry voices singing
All "right side up with care! "
The horses were high-spirited,
They ran away, and lo!
Broke loose from the sleigh, and left
It buried in the snow.
The people of that party
Lay scattered all around,
Some were frightened, others laughed,
To think it happened so,
That the end of their sleigh ride
Was a burial in the snow.
Yet they were gay and happy,
The bright moon o'er them shone,
And laughing o'er their sleigh ride,
They all went trudging home.
Some of those friends are dead and gone,
That met in that old home,
And never will we meet again,
Around that dear hearth stone.