Beneath the spruce tree and the pine
Were little children reared
And something of that regal line
In their own blood appeared.
For they were mighty, like the tree
In form and heart and brain
And grew in stately dignity—
The rugged sons of Maine.
Their cradle was the bough that swings,
Their lullaby the breeze
That strikes the forest's waiting strings
And wakes its harmonies.
They laved their feet in purling brooks
That tumble to the plain,
And learned from Nature more than books-
The rugged sons of Maine.
No terrors in the forest dwelt
Or through the forest crept—
It was the altar where they knelt,
The chamber where they slept.
They walked its solemn aisles secure
From want or care or pain,
In health and vigor rich, though poor—
The rugged sons of Maine.
The rugged sons of Maine have stamped
Their impress on the world,
Beneath the battleflag have tramped
Where death's tornado whirled.
The peacetime's greater victories
Have felt the hand and brain
Of children of the forest trees—
The rugged sons of Maine.
And some there were who left the wild
To other hills to roam,
But never does the forest child
Forget the forest home.
Remembering its tender love
In sunshine and in rain,
They proudly wear the title of
The rugged sons of Maine.
