Holding still its place, There the chimney stands, Stanch from top to base, Frowning on its foes. Heave apart the stones, Burst its iron bands! How it shakes and groans! Down the old house goes! Round the mantel-piece Glisten Scripture tiles; Henceforth they shall cease Painting Egypt’s woes, Painting David’s fight, Fair Bathsheba’s smiles, Blinded Samson’s might,— Down the old house goes! On these oaken floors High-shoed ladies trod; Through those panelled doors Trailed their furbelows: Long their day has ceased; Now, beneath the sod, With the worms they feast,— Down the old house goes! Many a bride has stood In yon spacious room; Here her hand was wooed Underneath the rose; O’er that sill the dead Reached the family tomb: All, that were, have fled,— Down the old house goes! Once, in yonder hall, Washington, they say, Led the New-Year’s ball, Stateliest of beaux. O that minuet, Maids and matrons gay! Are there such sights yet? Down the old house goes! British troopers came Ere another year, With their coats aflame, Mincing on their toes; Daughters of the house Gave them haughty cheer, Laughed to scorn their vows,— Down the old house goes! Doorway high the box In the grass-plot spreads; It has borne its locks Through a thousand snows; In an evil day, From those garden-beds Now ’tis hacked away,— Down the old house goes! Lo! the sycamores, Scathed and scrawny mates, At the mansion doors Shiver, full of woes; With its life they grew, Guarded well its gates; Now their task is through,— Down the old house goes! On this honored site Modern trade will build,— What unseemly fright Heaven only knows! Something peaked and high, Smacking of the guild: Let us heave a sigh,— Down the old house goes! COUNTRY SLEIGHING. A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. In January, when down the dairy The cream and clabber freeze, When snow-drifts cover the fences over, We farmers take our ease. At night we rig the team, And bring the cutter out; Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, And heap the furs about. Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, And sleighs at least a score; There John and Molly, behind, are jolly,— Nell rides with me, before. All down the village street We range us in a row: Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, And over the crispy snow! The windows glisten, the old folks listen To hear the sleigh-bells pass; The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, The road is smooth as glass. Our muffled faces burn, The clear north-wind blows cold, The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, Each in her lover’s hold.