George Pope Morris — Woodman Spare that Tree

Woodman spare that tree! Touch not a single bough; In youth it shelter'd me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near this cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, Say, wouldst thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earthbound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now tow'ring in the skies. Oft, when a careless child, Beneath its shade I heard The wood notes sweet and wild, Of many a forest bird. My mother kiss'd me here, My father press'd my hand, I ask thee, with a tear, Oh, let that old oak stand. My heart-strings round thee cling, Close, as thy bark, old friend, Here shall the wild bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree, the storm still brave, And, woodman, leave the spot, While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not.