Classic Poem

There was an old hunter camp'd down by the rill,
Who fish'd in this water, and shot on that hill.
The forest for him had no danger, nor gloom,
For all that he wanted was plenty of room!
Says he, “The world's wide, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green-wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?”

He wove his own nets, and his shanty was spread
With the skins he had dress'd and stretch'd out overhead;
Fresh branches of hemlock made fragrant the floor,
For his bed, as he sung when the daylight was o'er,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green-wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?”

That spring now half choked by the dust of the road,
Under boughs of old maples once limpidly flow'd;
By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung,
Which their sap often fill'd, while the hunter he sung,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green-wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?”

And still sung the hunter—when one gloomy day,
He saw in the forest what sadden'd his lay,—
A heavy-wheel'd wagon its black rut had made,
Where fair grew the greensward in broad forest glade—
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green-wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?”

He whistled his dog, and says he, “We can't stay;
I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away.”
Next day, through those maples the settler's axe rung,
While slowly the hunter trudged off as he sung,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green-wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?”