A farewell song to the lane.
A song for the lane,The green old lane,
That led from the hill
To the level plain.
O gentle muse, ere it fade from sight,
One feeble song to its praise indite.
The green old lane,
It towered so high,
The trees at the top
Seemed to touch the sky.
On the moss-grown wall
At either side
The vines grew wild
In native pride.
The wild rose blossomed,
The locust tree,
With its graceful foliage,
Was fair to see.
A brook crossed the lane
Near the drooping willow,
Two planks formed a bridge
O'er this placid billow.
A hawthorn grew
In that green old lane,
Just midway it stood
Tween the hill and the plain.
A moss-grown stone 'neath its shadow lay,
And children played there many a day.
Alas!
alas! for the green old lane!
I never shall look on it thus again.
The wants of the people the town must meet,
The pleasant lane must be made a street.
