And autumn’s golden brow is wrapped in gloom.
The cider-press, beneath the farm-house shade,
Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way,
While from the massive vat the liquid pours,
And in abundant casks ferments and foams.
Hail, generous drink! fair Newark’s honest boast,
The laborer’s beverage in a northern clime,
Where freedom first, in deadly strife was born,
And where her last scarred-follower shall die—
If death to such e’er come.