Woodman,
Spare That Tree
By George
Pope Morris (1802 – 1864)
Woodman,
spare that tree!
Touch not a
single bough!
In youth it
sheltered me.
And I’ll
protect it now.
‘Twas my
forefather’s hand
That placed
it near his cot;
There,
woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall
harm it not!
That old
familiar tree,
Whose glory
and renown
Are spread
o’er the land and sea, -
And wouldst
thou hew it down?
Woodman,
forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its
earth-bound ties;
O, spare that
aged oak,
Now towering
to the skies!
When but an
idle boy
I sought its
grateful shade;
In all their
gushing joy
Here, too, my
sisters played.
My mother
kissed me here;
My father
pressed my hand-
Forgive this
foolish tear,
But let that
old oak stand!
My
heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark,
old friend!
Here shall
the wild-bird sing,
And still thy
branches bend.
Old tree! the
storm still brave!
And, woodman,
leave the spot;
While I’ve a
hand to save,
Thy axe shall
harm it not.
