Western Refrain

    Droop not, brothers!
            As we go,
    O'er the mountains,
Under the boughs of mistletoe,
    Log huts we'll rear,
While herds of deer and buffalo
    Furnish the cheer.
File o'er the mountains--steady, boys
    For game afar
We have our rifles ready, boys!--
            Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
    Like chaff, boys!--ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!--
    Hah--hah--hah!

    Cheer up, brothers!
            As we go,
    O'er the mountains,
When we've wood and prairie-land,
    Won by our toil,
We'll reign like kings in fairy-land,
    Lords of the soil!
Then westward ho! in legions, boys--
    Fair Freedom's star
Points to her sunset regions, boys--
            Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
    Like chaff, boys!--ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!--
    Hah--hah--hah!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Soldier's Welcome Home.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Address. For the benefit of James Sheridan Knowles.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Life in the West.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

What Can It Mean?

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Life in the West.

Ho! brothers--come hither and list to my story--
    Merry and brief will the narrative be.
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory--
    Master am I, boys, of all that I see!
Where once frowned a forest, a garden is smiling--
    The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
    The children who cluster like grapes round my door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
The land of the heart is the land of the West!
        Oho, boys!--oho, boys!--oho!

Talk not of the town, boys--give me the broad prairie,
    Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free:
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,
    Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea!
A life in the woods, boys, is even as chang...

George Pope Morris

O'er the Mountains.

Some spirit wafts our mountain lay--
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
To distant groves and glens away!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the tide of empire flows--
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
Rejoicing as it westward goes!
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
        To refresh our weary way
            Gush the crystal fountains,
        As a pilgrim band we stray
            Cheerly o'er the mountains.

The woodland rings with song and shout!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
As though a fairy hunt were out!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the voice of woman cheers--
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
The hearts of hardy mountaineers!
                    Ho! boys...

George Pope Morris

Fragment of an Indian Poem.

    *        *        *        *        *        *

They come!--Be firm--in silence rally!
The long-knives our retreat have found!
Hark!--their tramp is in the valley,
And they hem the forest round!
The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver,
The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While across the eddying river
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring!
The blood-hounds darken land and water;
They come--like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing,
See upon the free winds dancing
Pennon proud and gaudy plume.
The strangers come in evil hour,
In pomp, and panoply, and power!
But, while upon our tribes they lower,
Think they our manly hearts will cower
To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strengt...

George Pope Morris

Westward Ho!

Away to the west! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where over the prairies the summer winds blow!

Why known to so few were its rivers and plains,
Where rustle so tall in their ripeness the grains?
The bison and Red-men alone cared to roam
O'er realms that to millions must soon give a home;
The vast fertile levels Old Time loved to reap
The haymaker's song hath awakened from sleep.

Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Why waited we fearing to plant and to sow?

Not ours was the waiting! By God was ordained
The hour when the ocean's grey steeds were up-reined,
And green marshes rose, and the bittern's abode
Became the Lone Land where the wild hunter strode,
And soils with grass harvests grew rich, and the clime
For us was prepared in the fulness of T...

John Campbell

Land-Ho!

UP, UP WITH THE SIGNAL!--The land is in sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The cold cheerless ocean in safety we've passed,
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last.
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,
To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Land!--land-ho!--All hearts glow with joy at the sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

THE SIGNAL IS WAVING!--Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again!
Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth,
The holiest spot on the face of the earth!
Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho!--land-ho!--We near it!--We bound at the sight!
Then be happy, if neve...

George Pope Morris

The Stockman

    (Air: A wet sheet and a flowing sea.)


A bright sun and a loosened rein,
    A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
    As merrily forth we bound
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
    And, by the dawns pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
    From morn till starry night.

Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,
    I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
    With the flash of their tameless eye
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
    As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
    And the horse that mocks at fear.

Theres mischief in you wide-horned steer,
    Theres danger in you cow;
Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
    The wild mobs ...

Andrew Barton Paterson