Anonymous Americas Poems

Eternal Time, that wastest without waste,
That art and art not, diest, and livest still;
Most slow of all, and yet of greatest haste;
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Quick, fly to the covert, thou hunted of men!
For the bloodhounds are baying o'er mountain and glen;
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Children of the glorious dead,
Who for freedom fought and bled,
With her banner o'er you spread,
On to victory.
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The marching armies of the past
Along our Southern plains,
Are sleeping now in quiet rest
Beneath the Southern rains.
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If I could frame for you in cunning words
The songs my heart in sleep is often singing,
You'd fancy, love, an orquestra of birds
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As I strayed from my cot at the close of the day,
I turned my fond gaze to the sky;
I beheld all the stars as so sweetly they lay,
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"If all the world were paper
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees were bread and cheese
What would we do for drink?
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Oh, England!
Sick in head and sick in heart,
Sick in whole and every part:
And yet sicker thou art still
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