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

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MAY, 1874.

CAMBRIDGE: Printed at the Riverside Press. 1876.


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.


Lancaster, May, 1874.



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, 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, 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 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... Continue reading book >>

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