Among the green old trees,

Are blooming city faces

'Neath rosy-lined pongees.

They're cottaging at Newport;

They're bathing at Cape May;

In Saratoga's ball-rooms

They dance the hours away.

Their voices through the quiet

Of haunted Catskill break;

Or rouse those dreamy dryads,

The nymphs of Echo Lake.

The hands we've led through Germans,

And squeezed, perchance, of yore,

Now deftly grasp the bridle,

The mallet, and the oar.

The eyes that wrought our ruin

On other men look down;

We're but the broken play-things

They've left behind in town.

Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature,

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