Stand overhead, as to invite
To good old cheer on Pocomoke.

And cunning baskets midstream lie
To trap the perch that gambol by;
In coves of creek the saw-mills sing,
And trim the spar and hew the mast;
And the gaunt loons dart on the wing,
To see the steamer looming past.
Now timber shores and massive piles
Repel our hull with friendly stroke,
And guide us up the long defiles,
Till after many fairy miles
We reach the head of Pocomoke.

Is it Snow Hill that greets me back
To this old loamy _cul-de-sac_?
Spread on the level river shore,
Beneath the bending willow-trees
And speckled trunks of sycamore,
All moist with airs of rival seas?
Are these old men who gravely bow,
As if a stranger all awoke,
The same who heard my parents vow,
--Ah well! in simpler days than now--
To love and serve by Pocomoke?

Does Chincoteague as then produce
These rugged ponies, lean and spruce?
Are these the steers of Accomac