Glossy as satin sheen,
When Spring returns the first art thou,
On mountain or in vale,
With springing life and budding bough,
To tell the joyous tale.

In Autumn's hours of cheerless gloom,
How glowing is the dye
Of the crimson robe thou dost assume,
Though it only be to die;
Like the red men who, long years ago,
Reposed beneath thy shade,
And wore a smiling lip and brow
On the pyre their foes had made.

And e'en in Winter fair art thou,
With many a brilliant gem,
That might adorn fair lady's brow,
Or deck a diadem;
And better than thy beauty rare,
Or shade thou givest free,
The life-stream of thy branches fair
Thou gen'rous, brave old tree!

Warmly we pray no deed of harm
May fright thy peaceful shade,
May'st thou ne'er see in war's alarm
Contending foes arrayed,
But, smiling down on peasants brave,
On honest tranquil toil,