 | Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney |  |
268
ON THE ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO THE UNION.
Come in, little sister, so healthful and fair,
Come take in our father's best parlour a share;
You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow,
Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow;
Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true,
But the twenty-five children can make room for you.
Come take in our father's best parlour a share;
You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow,
Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow;
Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true,
But the twenty-five children can make room for you.
A present, I see, for our sire you have brought,
His dessert to embellish; how kind was the thought!
A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue,
And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too,
The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree;
What a good/little sister! come hither to me.
His dessert to embellish; how kind was the thought!
A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue,
And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too,
The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree;
What a good/little sister! come hither to me.
You've a dowry besides very cunningly stored,
To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board,—
Detroit, Ypsilant, Ann Arbour, and more;
For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store;
You're a prog, I perceive—it is true to the letter,
And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better.
To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board,—
Detroit, Ypsilant, Ann Arbour, and more;
For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store;
269
And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better.
But where are your Indians—so feeble and few?
So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew!
From the forests they fade; o'er the waters that bore
The names of their baptism, they venture no more;
O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar,
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star.
So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew!
From the forests they fade; o'er the waters that bore
The names of their baptism, they venture no more;
O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar,
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star.
Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high,
Are the stateliest dames of our family,
Your thirteen old sisters,—don't treat them with scorn,
They were notable spinsters before you were born;
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear,—
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear.
Are the stateliest dames of our family,
Your thirteen old sisters,—don't treat them with scorn,
They were notable spinsters before you were born;
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear,—
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear.
They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell,
Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell;
They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July,
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red,
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead.
Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell;
They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July,
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red,
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead.
There are some who may call them both proud and old,
And say they usurp what they cannot hold;
Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray,
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray,
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear,
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear.
And say they usurp what they cannot hold;
270
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray,
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear,
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear.
They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day,
But you've as good right to your penny as they;
Though the price of our freedom they better have known,
Since they paid for it out of their purses alone;
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween,
So, hold up your head with the “Old Thirteen.”
But you've as good right to your penny as they;
Though the price of our freedom they better have known,
Since they paid for it out of their purses alone;
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween,
So, hold up your head with the “Old Thirteen.”
| Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney | |