And what of the oats, the wheat and the hay?
Who will shock as the reapers swing?
Or mend the roads in thicket and copse,
Or boil the syrup from maple drops?
Timber to fell, fires to make,—
Ice to cut on the frozen lake!
I wonder if Dad will be able to plow,—
And whether Mother is living now?
Why do we stay on Shiloh hill,
With our backs to the muddy river;