The grim old pines of Georgia,
So tall, and strong and grand,
Their beauty shades our pathway
As we march through the land.
Their only robe of verdure
Is never stripped from them at fall;
And yet of all our native trees
We love them best of all.
Upon her hills and in her vales
The pines were ever seen,
Till felled by some rough pioneer
Who wealth had come to glean.
Oh, cruel deed! oh, heartless man,
That comes for wealth alone,
Regardless of a country's pride,
Or her beauty thus adorned.
We love the pines still living
So noble, grand and gay;
We also love the dead that are decaying,
On their cold and silent beds of clay.
We love them for the warmth they give us,
Which cheer our social hearth,
For their crimson flame make our girls the fairest
Of any on the earth.
The grand old pine of Georgia—
The monarch of our land;
No one has ever gone unsheltered
Beneath thy outstretched hand.
Longfellow tried to sing thy praise
With Anderson, Pope and Gray,
And still you stand in all your splendor,
While they are sleeping in their beds of clay.
Thou true and noble pine,
Thou art the poor man's dearest friend;
When others one by one have left him,
You a helping hand will lend.
The rich, too, will ne'er forget you,
And o'er their heads your watching eyes will gaze
When in their palace homes they gather—
In December's morn, you'll bless them with your blaze.
Ah, stretch your arms, oh, noble pine,
All o'er our southern land,
And when my soul has left this sphere,
Come, I implore thee, and o'er my body stand.
Again, majestic friend, this boon I only ask,
Show to the world where I may be,
My name inscribe on a wooden slab,—
The name of R. J. P.
