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Almost a hundred years ago, in a lonely hut,
Of the dark and bloody ground of wild Kentucky,
A child was born to poverty and toil,
Save in the sweet prophecy of mother's love
None dreamed of future fame for him!
'Mid deep privation and in rugged toil,
He grew unschooled to vigorous youth,
His teaching was an ancient spelling book,
The Holy Writ, "The Pilgrim's Progress,"
Old "Æsop's Fables" and the "Life of Washington";
And out of these, stretched by the hearthstone flame
For lack of other light, he garnered lore
That filled his soul with faith in God.
The prophet's fire, the psalmist's music deep,
The pilgrims' zeal throughout his steadfast march,
The love of fellow man as taught by Christ,
And all the patriot faith and truth
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Marked the Father of our Land!
And there, in all his after life, in thought
And speech and act, resonant concords were in his great soul.
And, God's elect, he calmly rose to awful power,
Restored his mighty land to smiling peace,
Then, with the martyr blood of his own life,
Baptized the millions of the free.
Henceforth, the ages hold his name high writ
And deep on their eternal rolls.
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