BY J. R. BARBICK, of Kentucky


A Tear for "the dark and bloody ground,"
For the land of hills and caves;
Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep
Where the vandals tread their graves;
A sigh for the loss of her honored fame,
Dear won in the days of old;
Her ship is manned by a foreign crew,
For Kentucky, she is sold.

The bones of her sons lie bleaching on
The plains of Tippecanoe,
On the field of Raisin her blood was shed,
As free as the summer's clew;
In Mexico her McRee and Clay
Were first of the brave and bold -
A change has been in her bosom wrought,
For Kentucky, she is sold.

Pride of the free, was that noble State,
And her banner still were so.
Had the iron heel of the despot not
Her prowess sunk so low
Her valleys once were the freeman's home,
Her valor unbought with gold,
But now the pride of her life is fled,
For Kentucky, she is sold.

Her brave would once have scorned to wear
The yoke that crushes her now,
And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread,
Would sullen have made her brow
Her spirit yet will be wakened up,
And her saddened fate be told,
Her gallant sons to the world yet prove
That Kentucky is not sold

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