The walls are solid as Plymouth Rock. (Rock can crumble, my son.) The door of seasoned New England stock. Before it a Yankee fighting-cock. Pecks redcoat kings away from the lock. (Fighters can die, my son.)

The hearth is a corner where sages sit. (Sages pass, my son.) Washington’s heart lies under it. And the long roof-beams are chiseled and split From hickory tough as Jackson’s wit. (Bones in the dust, my son.)

The trees in the garden are fair and fine. (Trees blow down, my son.) Connecticut elm and Georgia pine. The warehouse groans with cotton and swine. The cellar is full of scuppernong-wine. (Wine turns sour, my son.)