He honest was. He trusted men.
His property proclaimed him rich; A
nd he was fooled time and again
By those who for his wealth did itch.
Was it an optimistic friend
Who took from him all that he had?
For friend to jeopardise a friend
Would be an end to friendship sad.
He backed a note, A foolish thing!
Unless one can afford to lose.
When losing would just ruin bring
A sane man should such task refuse.
He thought he had no need to fear.
No doubt his friend believed this too.
But backing notes has cost men dear.
The practise is by no means new.
To day that farm divided is.
The land on which he set his heart,
And all the glory that was his,
Was thrown upon the public mart.
The family has passed away.
They never were compelled to roam.
They suffered from their wealth's decay
But lived and died in their old home.
Upon the Ridge no finer Farm
Fell to the lot of any one
Than fell to him whose good right arm
Ought praise and honour to have won.
Not only was it large and good,
But it was beautiful to see.
It had a splendid stand of wood,
And this in great variety.
That block of woods a farm would make
If he had had no other land.
He loved that woods for its own sake
The situation too was grand.
And he had meadows rich and fair.
No better meadows one need ask.
The envious at them might stare
Beholding them in sunshine bask.
The owner was industrious,
And of his Farm immensely proud.
And he was ever generous.
His praises many sounded loud.
Was he extravagant? Perhaps,
But this I doubt. A plain man he,
For whom fair maids might set their caps.
He chose a bachelor to be.