THE OLD TURNPIKE

		We hear no more of the clanging hoof,
		  And the stage-coach rattling by,
		For the steam-king rules the traveled world
		  And the old pike's left to die.
		The grass creeps o'er the flinty path,
		  And the stealthy daisies steal
		Where once the stage-horse, day by day,
		  Lifted his iron heel.

		No more the weary stager dreads
		  The toll of the coming morn;
		To more the bustling landlord runs
		  At the sound of the echoing horn;
		For the dust lies still upon the road, 
		  And the bright-eyed children play
		Where once the clattering hoof and wheel
		  Rattled along the way.

		No more we hear the cracking whip,
		  Or the strong wheels' rumbling sound;
		And ah! the water drives us on,
		  And an iron horse is found!
		The coach stands rusting in the yard,
		  And the horse has sought the plough;
		We have spanned the earth with an iron rail,
		  And the steam king rules us now!

		The old turnpike is a pike no more,
		  Wide open stands the gate;
		We have made us a road for our horse to stride, 
		  Which we ride at a flying rate;
		We have filled the valleys and leveled the hills,
		  And tunelled the mountain side;
		And round the rough crag's dizzy verge
		  Fearlessly we ride!

		On-on-on-with a haughty front!
		  A puff, a shtick, and a bound;
		While the tardy echoes wake too late,
		  To babble back the sound!
		And the old pike road is left alone,
		  And the stagers seek the plough;
		We have circled the earth with an iron rail,
		  And the steam king rules us now!

			Covington Journal 6 Aug. 1853 p. 4 col. 1