A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
Well might such sounds move the stern Pilgrim band
To sweep these gilded drones from out their land;
Ill could their rigid faith endure to see
This idle life—this midnight revelry.
An odd disorganizer was the man,
Who led to scenes like these this sober clan—
He looked on men as boys just out of school—
The “law—their schoolmaster,” he called a fool:
His mode of schooling did not seem to suit—
Indians he taught, not “young ideas,” to shoot.
All things, in fine, seemed going fast to ruin,
Until their neighbors saw the evil brewing—
They caught the sheepskinned wolf who caused these pranks,
And sent him back to England—and gave thanks.
So when they'd stilled the bacchanalian roar,
Mount Wollaston was Merry-Mount no more,
And other settlers came of graver frame,
Until the spot and town received a name.
To sweep these gilded drones from out their land;
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This idle life—this midnight revelry.
An odd disorganizer was the man,
Who led to scenes like these this sober clan—
He looked on men as boys just out of school—
The “law—their schoolmaster,” he called a fool:
His mode of schooling did not seem to suit—
Indians he taught, not “young ideas,” to shoot.
All things, in fine, seemed going fast to ruin,
Until their neighbors saw the evil brewing—
They caught the sheepskinned wolf who caused these pranks,
And sent him back to England—and gave thanks.
So when they'd stilled the bacchanalian roar,
Mount Wollaston was Merry-Mount no more,
And other settlers came of graver frame,
Until the spot and town received a name.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |