A Poem About Saxonville


  Just twenty miles from Boston,
    In Massachusetts State,
  Lies a pretty little village,
    As to you I will relate,
  A village that is noted
    For its woolen twist and twill,
  `Tis the pride of Massachusetts
    And they call it Saxonville,
  No soul that ever lingered
    `Neath its tall majestic trees,
  No lips that ever breathed
    Its sweetly scented breeze,
  Could fail to praise the beauty
    Of each valley, dale and hill,
  Each brooklet, stream and meadow
    In the place called Saxonville,
  Its daughters, too, are beautiful,
    The best wish of my heart,
  To them and to thier lovers,
    This day I do impart,
  God give them health and happiness,
    And keep them from all ill;
  And may they know no sorrow
    While they live in Saxonville,
  In it shady groves and valleys
    I have spent full many an hour,
  And its scenes have of't like magic
    Woke enchantment in my bower,
  I have listened half enraptured
    By the humming of the mill,
  To the rippling waters
    As they flowed through Saxonville,
  But time has wrought its changes
    And, alas, I'm far away
  From that pretty little village
    In another state today,
  And though evening 'round me gathers,
    My heart beats wildly still
  For the friends I loved in boyhood
    In the place called Saxonville,