At the Cabin. 1849--
D. W. N.
Three hardy sons from New England's shore,
With bronzed face and scarred hands,
Sat down to talk old matters o'er,
And feast on smoking chowdered clams.
Amid the wild California scenes,
'Mong stately pines our Cabin stood;
On rolling hills and deep ravines,
Where roving deer, and grizzlies brood.
Thanksgiving day we here enjoyed,
The bivalves from the Merrimac;
While all about us wild and void,
We pioneers, our jokes would crack.
Three thousand miles from home and friends
Was nothing to these roving boys;
'Twas digging Gold in wooded glens,
These mountain dudes were thus employed
Free from all creeds, or labor strikes,
And every political clan;
Freedom was not in petty fights,
Revolvers backed up every man.
We thus look backward two score-years
To that log-cabin on the hill;
The boys still live, those pioneers,
I hope, and wish, they always will.