Woodman, Spare that Tree!

By George Pope Morris

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 land and sea —

And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forebear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, 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.