The weeds that grew hard by the bridge, Where once we used to play, And the little church that stood within the woods, Looked much the same today. I searched in vain for Blumphy's grave, Near where the tide does flow. We peopled it with ghosts and things, Some fifty years ago. The Indian and his birch-bark camp, That stood in days gone by Along the winding river's bank, No more does greet the eye. Their boys, our happy playmates were, With arrow and with bow, As hunters in the woods we played, Some fifty years ago. The house and barn where Paul Richard , Our neighbour, kind and good, did once reside, has gone and left No trace of where it stood. Here lived and died a worthy man, Without much outward show. His death took place as I recall, Some fifty years ago. I set me down on old Paul's Hill, To bring back memories fond, When all us boys together Used to swim across the pond. In winter when this same old hill, was coated o'er with snow. We'd go coasting down like lightening, Some fifty years ago. 196