AN APOSTROPHE.
Old Plymouth is a rambling town,
And many leagues of beach there are,
Where echoes still the iron-sleet
And glows the crimson heart of war.
The smoke of battle pressing down
Still lurks where Liberty was bought,
And minute-men come pouring in,
Nor lust of power, or gold they sought.
Clear eyed they stand, of knotty arm,
O God of Fortune, Fate and Crown,
Make sure the bonds of brotherhood
’Twixt this old world and Plymouth-town.