Still let us roam our ancient woods;
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes.
"Touch not the hand they stretch to you;
The falsely-profferd cup put by;
Will you believe a coward true?
Or taste the poison'd draught, to die?
Their friendship is a lurking snare;
Their honor but an idle breath;
Their smile the smile that traitors wear;