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The red men from Nutfield have melted away,
There are none left to join us in worship today;
We find their spent arrows, but never a bone,
And the place of their graves here, to us is unknown.
Our sires bought their land here, some good twelve miles square,
And held from their Sachem a title-deed fair:
So they with our fathers were never at war.
For oppression and plunder all good men abhor.
They gathered for worship beneath an oak tree,
And the spot is still marked with a stone, as we see,
And raising their hearts and their voices in prayer,
Invoked His protection who first led them there.
They'd no lute, harp or fiddle, their voices to aid,
Yet raised their glad anthems to God in the shade;
They had no pealing organ their voices to drown,
And 'twere well were there no wooden singers in town.
McGregor his flock like a shepherd did feed-,
A shining exemplar in word and in deed;
He led them in worship and joined them in work,
Nor did their good pastor from field labor shirk.
They bad one way of worship and went to one place,
Nor split into parties themselves to disgrace;
They gave thanks at their meals and had family prayer,
And on Lord's day to meeting would mostly repair.
No hireling performers devoured the flock,
For pastor and people were built on the Rock,
Jesus Christ their foundation, who died for our race,
And whose love all the Gentiles and Jews did embrace.
They were called the Scotch-Irish, no matter the name,
Or whether from Shem, Ham, or Japhet they came;
They were plain working people and ate their own bread,
The naked they clothed, the hungry they fed.
When the land they had purchased they farming begun,
They smote down the forests and let in the sun.
They made them log cabins, and Gregg built a mill,
Where sawing and grinding are carried on still.
They planted them orchards, and good cider made,
And wielded the ax, the plow and the spade.
The hoe and the scythe, the pitch-fork and rake,
And all but the lazy good living could make.
They raised good potatoes, good flax and good corn,
And some as smart babies as ever was born;
And mothers were fruitful, the daughters were fair,
And sons in field labor with fathers would share.
The girls spun and wove, and nice garments they made,
Whole families then were in homespun arrayed,
Working well their farm products of flax and of wool,
All teachers or scholars in labor's high school.
Invisible now, yet they present may be,
This numerous host of descendants to see.
And when rightly we feel and justly we do,
May joy with the angels such actions to view.
Then welcome to us this memorial day;
Ere the like shall return we shall most pass away,
To mingle with spirits akin to our own,
To see as we're seen and to know as we're known.
Lord, save us from pride and all vain, empty show,
Uphold us and cheer us and guide as we go,
And when the dark waves of death's river are passed,
With the just and the holy receive us at last.
All modern inventions our sires never knew:
Their virtues mere many, their vices were few;
Unknown were steam travel and telegraphs then,
But those were the days when New Hampshire raised men.
To think and let think, to live and let live,
Is the doctrine to teach and the freedom to give;
To speak and let speak, each in turn, one by one,
Is the true way of worship since worship begun.
There's none but false prophets such course will reject,
For they all the persons of men will respect,
The ring and gay clothing they give the chief place,
And practices partial their meetings disgrace.
Not so with the fathers, they hated the priest,
And hireling false prophet that rode on the beast;
The merchants of Babylon, sons of the whore.
And for freedom in worship they came to the shore.
We welcome all nations and colors today,
Nor that one than another is better will say,
For the Jews and the Gentiles have natures alike,
And should for fair freedom unitedly strike.
We pray that our brethren in every place,
May learn of their Saviour and share in His grace,
That king-craft and priest-craft, and error may fall,
And Christ our Redeemer become all in all.
Glory to God forever. Amen. June 10, A. D. 1869.
After the receipt of this reply Mr. Brown printed the correspondence, together with his prepared poem for the occasion,-on a quarto sheet, and gratutiously distributed it to the people assembled.
The poem which was written for the occasion by Lucinda J Gregg, and which was read by a former pastor and resident, was printed in "The Londonderry Celebration; 150th Anniversary of the Settlement of Old Nutfield, N. H., June 10, 1869," (p. 13), compiled by Robert C. Mack, 1869. It has been reprinted also in "Willey's Book of Nutfield," (p. 106); now in press and to be published early in 1896. It has been reprinted here on the next page so that the two poems can be read together.
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