Classic Poem

Such was the man the hero of our song;
A superstitious being, fond of talk,
Who would beguile the snowy evenings long
With deeds of those who forth ‘at midnight walk
To bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk;’
His own experience, too, he'd linger o'er,—
How witches used his choicest plans to balk,
To blast his crops, and haunt his barns before
He nailed the horse-shoe fast above the folding door.