The warrior may twine round his temples the leaves
Of the Laurel that Victory throws him;
The Lover may smile as he joyously weaves
The Myrtle that beauty bestows him.
The Poet may gather his ivy, and gaze
On its evergreen honors enchanted;
But what are their ivys, their myrtles, and bays,
To the vine that our forefathers planted.

Let France boast the lily— let Britain be vain
Of her thistles, and shamrocks, and roses;
Our shrubs and our blossoms sprout out from the main,
And our bold shore their beauty discloses.
With a home and a country, a soul and a God,
What freeman with terrors is haunted,
Bedecked with the dewdrops and washed with the flood
Is the vine that our forefathers planted.

Then a health to the brave, and the worthy, that bore
The vine whose rich clusters o'ershade us;
They planted its root by the rocks of the shore,
And called down His blessing who made us.
—And a health to the Fair who will raise up a brave
Generation of Yankees undaunted,
To nourish, to cherish, to honor, and save
The vine that our forefathers planted.