Rhymes of Old Plimouth

by Herbert Randall

THE PASSING OF THE OLD ELM.

The orioles are weeping by the roadside down the way,

And the robins, heavy-hearted, still their laughter for a day,

For the old elm tree is passing, in the middle of the town,

And the axes will not tarry till the old elm tree is down.

You may share no more its message in the springtime of the year,

With the joyful lilting concord when the song-birds first appear;

You will miss the calm enchantment of its leafy choirs in June,

And its heavenly benediction on an August afternoon.

You will miss the sunset glory where it yellowed in the fall,

And the swarm of stars that gathered in the branches at the call

Of the sparrow at his vespers; you will miss the joy and glow

Of the melting moonlight blended with its legion flowers of snow.

You will miss its stately lyric as it broke the mystic flight

Of the wild wind-shattered tempest thro’ the solitudes of night;

For the old elm tree is passing from the middle of the town,

And the axes will not tarry till the old elm tree is down.

’Tis a century, they tell us, since it sprung up by the wall,

Full of love for all God’s creatures, yet the old elm tree must fall;

But its strong sap mounting skyward with its tidings of good will,

With its sturdy flow of courage for a soul that’s standing still,

Will forever thread my dreamings with the wonder unimpaired,

And the spirit of devotion for its blessings I have shared.

Yes, the robins, heavy-hearted, still their laughter for a day,

And the orioles are weeping by the roadside down the way.