Poems by Will Carleton

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Underneath an apple-tree
Underneath an apple-tree
Yellow, mellow, ripened days,
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout;
They're taking me to the gallows, mother--they mean to hang me high;
My business on the jury's done--the quibblin' all is through--
JOHN:
GIVE us your hand, Mr. Lawyer: how do you do to-day?
I.
I.
By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
[As Told in 1880.]
Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new;
I, who was always counted, they say,
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way--
The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care,
There is a chillness in the air--
I've been to the old farm-house, good-wife,
They 've got a brand-new organ, Sue,
The Farmer Discourses of his Son.
Some men were born for great things,
Through blinding storm and clouds of night,

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