Woodman, Spare that Tree! by George Pope Morris

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Woodman, Spare that Tree!
by George Pope Morris

Woodman, spare that tree!
⁠Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
⁠And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
⁠That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
⁠Thy ax shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
⁠Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea—
⁠And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
⁠Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak
⁠Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
⁠I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
⁠Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
⁠My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
⁠But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
⁠Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
⁠And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
⁠And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
⁠Thy ax shall harm it not.