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    The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.
    The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.
    The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.
    Ebook163 pages1 hour

    The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.

    By Eugenia Dunlap Potts

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.

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      Book preview

      The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County. - Eugenia Dunlap Potts

      Project Gutenberg's The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky, by Eugenia Dunlap Potts

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky

      to the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.

      Author: Eugenia Dunlap Potts

      Release Date: March 10, 2010 [EBook #31594]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONG OF LANCASTER, KENTUCKY ***

      Produced by David Garcia, Stephen Hutcheson and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      THE

      SONG OF LANCASTER,

      KENTUCKY.

      TO THE

      STATESMEN, SOLDIERS, AND CITIZENS OF GARRARD COUNTY.

      BY

      EUGENIA DUNLAP POTTS,

      MAY, 1874.

      CAMBRIDGE:

      Printed at the Riverside Press.

      1876.

      [iii]

      NOTE.

      The writer of the following little history has presumed to borrow the peculiar style of versification from Longfellow’s celebrated Song of Hiawatha.

      She has carefully examined the records within reach for the facts of her story. Should important omissions occur, it will be due to the meagerness of existing evidence.

      May events so dear to hearts now at rest forever, be perpetuated in the memory of the present generation.

      EUGENIA D. POTTS.

      Lancaster, May, 1874.

      [1]

      THE SONG OF LANCASTER.

      CANTO I.

      PRIMEVAL DAYS.

      Hear a song of ancient story,

      Of a city on a hillside,

      Of the valleys all about it,

      Of the forest and the wildwood,

      Of the deer that stalked within it,

      And the birds that flew above it,

      And the wolves and bears around it,

      Sole possessors and retainers

      Of the silent territory.

      Hear the song of its high mountains

      Of its gushing rills and streamlets,

      Of its leaping, rolling rivers,

      Of the meadows still and lonely,

      Of the groves all solitary,

      Of the land of cunning fables.

      Should you ask me of this city,

      With its legends and its stories,

      [2]

      With its tales of peace and plenty,

      With its tales of Indian warfare,

      With its nights and days of watching,

      With the camp-fires all a-gleaming,

      And the white man’s deadly peril,

      I should answer, I should tell you,

      ’Tis the city of Lancaster,

      In the county we call Garrard,

      In the State of old Kentucky,

      In America, the nation

      On the continent Northwestern,

      Found by Christopher Columbus.

      Once a tangled, gloomy woodland,

      With the music of its rivers,

      As they wound along the grasses,

      With the singing of its birdlings,

      As they flew among the maples,

      With the hissing of its reptiles,

      Crawling o’er the sylvan meadows,

      With the growling of its wild beasts,

      Lurking in the dells and caverns.

      Angels gazed with pleasure on it,

      On this Eden habitation,

      On this work so calm and lovely;

      On the moonlit, velvet carpet,

      Where the fairies held their revels,

      On the broad expanse of verdure,

      With the sunbeams slanting o’er it,

      [3]

      On the rugged mountain eyrie,

      Where the eagle reared her nestlings,

      On the tiny brooks that trickled

      Down the glens so cool and shaded.

      Green and fresh the ferns and mosses,

      Clinging close to rock and crevice,

      Pure and bright the silver waters,

      Dancing o’er the shelving limestone.

      Angels saw and angels praised it,

      For the gracious Spirit made it,

      Very good the Spirit called it.

      Happy valley! Peaceful shadows!

      Glorious sunlight of an epoch,

      Which the latter days can know not!

      For the stride of man’s progression

      Desecrates these pristine beauties,

      Bends these gorgeous land-scape beauties,

      To his purposes of profit.

      And the cycle brought its changes,

      As the moons were waxing, waning.

      The still tract of virgin woodland,

      Was invaded by the demon

      That the sweet primeval ages

      Soon were destined to encounter,

      The remorseless Indian demon,

      The bold red man of the forest.

      Then the wigwam and the peace-pipe

      [4]

      Sent aloft the smoke of welcome,

      Welcome to the roving brothers,

      To the tribes that wandered restless,

      To the sachem and the chieftain,

      To the warrior and the maiden.

      I have said the tribes invaded

      The sweet haunts of Nature’s children,

      Of her birds and beasts and reptiles,

      Of her rivers, rills, and streamlets;

      Of her trees and flowers and grasses,

      Yet the song of peace continued.

      Peaceful still, yet no more silent;

      For where man, with human passion,

      Dwells in all this wide creation,

      Strife is ever slumb’ring, waiting,

      Waiting for the magic touchstone,

      For the trouble he is born to,

      Trouble, as the sparks fly upward.

      So there rose a reign of terror,

      Of dismay and cruel bloodshed,

      When the white man came among them,

      The all-potent, dreaded pale-face,

      He, another bold invader,

      An usurper of the woodland.

      When he came with might and fury,

      And the hatchet was uplifted,

      When the war-cry sounded louder,

      And the wigwam smoked in ashes,

      [5]

      And the peace-pipe fell forever,

      From the lips all stiff and gory;

      And the sachem and the chieftain,

      And the warrior and the maiden,

      Fled for safety from the woodland,

      Roaming restless, ever moving,

      To the land of deer and bison,

      To the rolling, grassy prairies,

      To the distant unknown regions,

      To the placid, broad Pacific,

      To the setting of the sunlight.

      [6]

      CANTO II.

      1769-1796.

      PIONEERS.

      In the days my Muse is singing,

      In the days of early settlers

      On the dark and bloody ground, there

      Came a pioneer so famous

      For his greatness and his goodness,

      For his sterling sense of honor,

      For his frame of strength and vigor,

      For his nature, bold and hardy,

      And his spirit, firm and steady,

      That the annals of the nation,

      The proud archives of the country,

      Shout his name in stirring pæans,

      Blazon forth his fame and glory,

      From the rising to the setting

      Of the sun he loved to follow.

      Many days and nights he wandered

      O’er the turf of good old Garrard,

      Now in sight, perchance in hearing,

      Of the birds and beasts and reptiles,

      [7]

      Roaming wild and roaming lonely,

      In the groves of fair Lancaster.

      Now in sight, perchance in hearing

      Of the melancholy plover,

      Of the bluebird’s thrilling whistle,

      Of the redbird’s gentle chirping,

      Of the blackbird’s noisy chatter,

      Of the whippoorwill’s soft pleading,

      And the ringdove’s tender cooing.

      All these sounds, I trow, were welcome,

      To the pioneer hunter,

      Daniel Boone, the practiced hunter.

      On the plains and hills I’m

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