The Potomac meets the Atlantic. On
Over the trail grown rough and steep,
Now soft on the snow, now loud on the rock,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
The United States must keep Oregon.
It was October when he left
The Walla Walla, though little heed
Paid he to the season. Nay, indeed,
In the lonely canyons just ahead,
Little mattered it what the almanac said.