Where are Elmer,
           Herman,
         Bert,
           Tom and Charley,
         The weak of will,
           the strong of arm,
         the clown,
           the boozer,
         the fighter?

    All,
           all are sleeping
             on the hill.

    One passed in a fever,
           One was
              burned in a mine,
         One was
              killed in a brawl,
           One died in a jail,
         One fell from a bridge
               toiling for children
                   and wife- All,
           all are sleeping,
         sleeping,
           sleeping on the hill.

    Where are Ella,
           Kate,
         Mag,
           Lizzie and Edith,
         The tender heart,
           the simple soul,
         the loud,
           the proud,
         the happy one?

    -- All,
           all are sleeping
             on the hill.

    One died in shameful child-birth,
           One of a thwarted love,
         One at the hands
               of a brute
             in a brothel,
           One of a broken pride,
         in the search
               for heart's desire;
        One after life
               in far-away London
                   and Paris Was
              brought to her little space
                   by Ella
                       and Kate and Mag
          -- All,
           all are sleeping,
         sleeping,
           sleeping on the hill.

    Where are Uncle Isaac
           and Aunt Emily,
         And old Towny Kincaid
               and Sevigne Houghton,
         And Major Walker
             who had
                  talked With venerable men
                       of the revolution?

    -- All,
           all are sleeping
             on the hill.

    They brought them dead sons
           from the war,
         And daughters whom life
            had crushed,
         And their children fatherless,
           crying
          -- All,
           all are sleeping,
         sleeping,
           sleeping on the hill.

  Where is Old Fiddler
         Jones Who
          played with life
               all his ninety years,
           Braving the sleet with
              bared breast,
         Drinking,
           rioting,
         thinking neither of wife
              nor kin,
           Nor gold,
         nor love,
           nor heaven?

    Lo!

    he babbles
           of the fish-frys
         of long ago,
           Of the horse-races
               of long ago
             at Clary's Grove,
         Of what Abe Lincoln
              said One time at Springfield.

 
  Hod Putt

    HERE I lie
           close to
            the grave Of Old
                Bill Piersol,
           Who grew rich
              trading with the Indians,
         and who Afterwards
            took the Bankrupt Law And
                emerged from it richer
                       than ever Myself grown
                     tired of toil
                           and poverty And beholding
             how Old Bill and other
                grew in wealth Robbed
                       a traveler
                     one Night
                       near Proctor's Grove,
           Killing him unwittingly
             while doing so,
         For which
             I was tried and hanged.

    That was my way
           of going into bankruptcy.

    Now we
         who took the bankrupt law
            in our respective ways Sleep
                 peacefully side by side.

 
  Ollie McGee

    Have you seen
           walking through
               the village A Man
             with downcast eyes
                   and haggard face?

    That is my husban who,
           by secret cruelty Never
              to be told,
         robbed me of my youth
               and my beauty;
        Till at last,
           wrinkled and with yellow teeth,
         And with
              broken pride and shameful humility,
           I sank into the grave.

    But what
          think you
            gnaws at my husband's heart?

    The face of
         what I was,
           the face of
             what he made me!

    These are
          driving him to the place
         where I lie.

    In death,
           therefore,
         i am avenged.

 
  Fletcher McGee

    She took my strength
           by minutes,
         She took my life
               by hours,
         She drained me
              like a fevered moon
             That saps the spinning world.

    The days went by