Icy waves upon the stone,
Woods that never axe have known,
Silent echoes yet unwrung—
What was it that made them come?
Dusky wood and rocky soil,
Sunrise, sunset, steady toil;
Hand-hewn home and work-long day;
What was it that made them stay?
Trill of fife and thump of drum,
Ragged coat and shouldered gun,
War for field and sword for hoe;
What was it that made them go?
Children’s children walk at ease,
Eat the fruits of ancient trees.
Who alive would choose to pay
If the price was asked today?
Copyright © 2022 Elisabeth Grace Foley