While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen,
And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.
Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad,
As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake;
The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year,
And the salmon raced from their spawning creek.
Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed,
We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad;
From the distant blue came the caribou,
Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.