If this river could tell old stories
For all of the county to hear
Of past lives and their glories,
And tribulations from yesteryear.

Of long summers that seemed to stifle,
And frosty winters so bitter and gray
Of the faithful hunter and his rifle,
And soldiers in their respective array.

Of lovers who've swam in your drift,
Then sunbathed on your inviting banks
Of spring floods and currents swift,
And harvesters of the evening shank

Tranquil and relaxed, I calmly stand
Sifting old tales, my feet in the sand
Streamy echoes whisper over this land
Emitting secrets too aged to understand.