But oil-wells render dear each spot.
The ceaseless tap, tap of the tools,
The engine’s puff, the pump’s dull squeak,
The horsemen splashing through the pools
Of greasy mud along the Creek,
Are sounds which cannot be suppress’d
In these dear Ile-lands of the Bless’d.
Deep in the vale of Cherry Run
The Humboldt Works I went to see,
And sitting there an oil-cask on