And ripe, true gentles in Boston town,
But the men of my blood to my blood seem best—
Who still hold the honor of Mitre and Crown.
Though empty their cellars and worn their attire,
These are the men of my heart's desire.
So, gentles, these stumbling rhymes I send
To our spruce-clad hills, for a word of cheer,—
Where there's ever a welcome and ever a friend,
And the brown coat covers the cavalier.
Take them, I pray you, for what they are worth,