Classic Poem

Well , as I said, I'm forest bred,
A rough uncultured critter,
Yet in my way I've read per day
Some page of forest natur'.
Among the first things I obsarv'd —
My mates it didn't strike —
What ar we do, we'll nar get two
That see a tree alike.

Folks may be honest and sincere,
And may ha' eyes to see through,
And hold a principle as dear,
Tho' they don't see as we do.
Now that's a very leetle fact,
It seems as plain as prattle;
Would folks but see 't, 'twould save much heat,
An' many an' many a battle.

Another thing which took my eye
Was Natur's moral statur',
For Natur' will not tell a lie,
Nor won't have lies, will Natur'.
A tree will fall the way she's cut,
No words aside can win her,
And smash you splay, if in her way,
Let you be saint or sinner.

And when you go to square her up,
Nar heed what fools may say;
Cut to the chalk — aye, that's the talk —
Let chips strike who they may.
He who would talk you off the straight,
You tell him that he drivels;
The right is right! 'twill stand the light,
Be 't God's law or the devil's.

And he's no better than a fool,
A little silly critter,
Who thinks by cunnin' to out-pull
Or cheat old Mother Natur'.
Another thing which did me strike,
While through the forest goin' —
Your timber's always somethin' like
The soil on which it's growin'.

The elm will root him firm, I ween,
'Mong rocks, and he will thrive
Upon the spot where maples green
Could hardly keep alive.
And he will thrive and flourish thar,
And to the winds he'll call,
And talk wi' spirits o' the air
Beside the waterfall.

Yon oak's exposed to wind and rain,
To ev'ry storm that swells,
So ev'ry fibre, leaf and grain
His long life-battle tells.
He gathers strength from ev'ry shock,
And tougher still he grows,
And looks defiance from the rock
To ev'ry storm that blows.

While far within the shelterin' vale
The lady-maple leans,
And tells her quiet, peaceful tale
To gentle evergreens,
Close by, a brother all-misplaced,
In an unfriendly soil,
He fights and frets until he gets
Demoralized the while.

Then sad and lone and woe-begone,
To ev'ry wind he sighs,
Resigns the strife for light and life,
And sullenly he dies.
So, like the tree, what we would be
Depends not on our skill;
And wrong or right are we, despite
Our wishes or our will.