Over the wooded banks

In the hour of evening quiet

Under the tents are song and bustle

And the fires are scattered.

Thee I greet O happy race!

I recognize thy blazes

I myself at other times

These tents would have followed.

With the early rays to-morrow

Shall disappear your freedom’s trace

Go you will—but not with you

Longer go shall the bard of you.

He alas the changing lodgings

And the pranks of days of yore

Has forgot for rural comforts

And for the quiet of a home.