Classic Poem

The Local Spirit never dies,
Though it is mostly rotten.
For Local Spite and local lies
Can never be forgotten;
The local truth dies very young
When wed to local merit;
'Tis murdered by the envious tongue —
And — that's the Local Spirit.

The General Good is sacrificed,
In spite of all petitions,
To paltry private interests
And local mean ambitions.
And when we lose 'neath fortune's frown
The manhood we inherit,
The Local Spirit treads us down —
For that's the Local Spirit.

But, though they may be very few
And poor as autumn stubble,
The local friends are leal and true
Whenever one's in trouble.
They make a man hold up his head
And face the world and dare it!
And that's — when all is done and said —
The other Local Spirit.