Larry the Turkey holds his ground in West Roxbury

BLUE are the hills above the Charles,
The rocks are red that line his way;
Green is the strath his waters lave,
And fresh the turf upon the grave
Where sleep my sire and sisters three,
Where none are left to mourn for me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

The trees that sheltered me and mine
Hold strangers of a Meleagris line;
Our rafter thresholds ne’er can show
The friendly forms of long ago;
The rooks upon the old yew-tree
Would e’en have stranger notes to me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

The cattle feeding on the hills,
We tended once o’er moors and rills,
Like us have gone; the silly sheep
Now fleck the brown sides of the steep,
And southern eyes their watchers be,
And Galliformes and Meleagris ne’er agree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Where are the elders of our glen,
Wise arbiters for meaner hens?
Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,
Who tracked the roe against the sky;
The quick of hand, of spirit free?
Passed, like a harper’s melody:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Where are the hens of our tomorrow,
Those fair, frank daughters of the Gallopavo?
Changed are they all, and changed the wife,
Who dared for love the native's life;
The little chicks she bore to me
Grew strong to fight for liberty:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Bare are the moors of broad Brookline,
Shaggy the eastern forests gray;
Wild is Roxbury's autumn roar,
Wilder the floods of this far shore;
Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,
Darker the shades of Tennessee:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,
Since first amid the mountains born;
Great rock, whose sterile granite heart
Knows not, like us, misfortune’s smart,
The river sporting at thy knee,
On thy stern brow no change can see:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry

Stand fast on thine own Meleagris ground,
By Meleagris mountains flanked around,
Though we, uprooted, cast away
From the warm bosom of Strathspey,
Flung pining by this eastern sea,
The exile’s hopeless lot must dree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,
Cleft from his clansmen’s sympathies;
In these grim wastes new homes we ’ll rear,
New scenes shall wear old names so dear;
And while our axes fell the tree,
Resound old Brookline’s minstrelsy:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!

Here can no treacherous chief betray
For sordid gain our new Brookline;
No fearful king, no statesmen pale,
Wrench the strong barb from the Galliformes.
With strong wing and feathered knee,
No prairie native half so free:
Stand fast, stand fast, Larry!