VALENTINE'S MANUAL
 

THE SONG OF JMOSHOLU

By J. J. Meehan

A little brook that tinkles low,

Beyond the Harlem's tide,
O'er many a rocky, shingled slope

Adown the green hillside.

Oft have I trod its mossy ways

In wood of pine and leaf,
Where wound his spear or trimmed his bow

Some brave Mohican chief.

Here burned the camp-fires long ago

And rose the bright tepee,
Where now the golfer swings his club,

Or builds his sanded tee.

Gone are the war-dance and the cry

That echoed hill and glade;
Long hushed the voice of swarthy sire,

And lithesome, dusky maid.

But still Van Cortlandt's storied wall

Looks out on skies of blue;
Still comes at twilight's mystic hour

The song of Mosholu.

Would that my lot were sometime cast,
Earth done, where spirits dream;

And smoke their cloudy calumets
By this old Indian stream!

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