Classic Poem

Tie the moccasin, bind the pack,
Sling your rifle across your back,
Up! and follow the mountain track,
Tread the Indian Trail.
North and west is the road we fare
Toward the forts of the Frenchmen, where
" Peace or War! " is the word we bear,
Life and Death in the scale.

The leaves of October are dry on the ground,
The sheaves of Virginia are gathered and bound,
Her fallows are glad with the cry of the hound,
The partridges whirr in the fern;
But deep are the forests and keen are the foes
Where Monongahela in wilderness flows;
We've labors and perils and torrents and snows
To conquer before we return.

Hall and council-room, farm and chase,
Coat of scarlet and frill of lace
All are excellent things in place;
Joy in these if ye can.
Mine be hunting-shirt, knife, and gun,
Camp aglow on the sheltered run,
Friend and foe in the checkered sun;
That's the life for a man!