-Elizabeth Brewster
Where are the lumberjacks who came from the woods for Christmas,
Drinking, fighting, singing their endless ballads,
Eating pork and pancakes for breakfast, gravy dripping over?
Where are their wives, milking the cows in winter,
Slopping out to the barn in rubber boots,
Shoveling out the snow drifts?
Churning, baking the crisp-scented bread in huge loaves?
Bearing their ten children?
Where is the shrill scream of the mill whistle,
The smell of a town built on sawdust and pine shavings?
Where are the logs afloat on the wide river?
Oh sad river,
Sing a song of pain for your children gone,
Oh glory gone.