"Woodman! Spare That Tree!" (1837)
A Ballad
The words copied from the New York Mirror, written by
George Pope Morris, 1802-1864,
By whom this song is respectfully dedicated to
Benjamin M. Brown, Esq.
The Music by Henry Russell, 1812-1900.

  In presenting the song of "Woodman! spare that tree!" to the
public, the Publishers [Firth & Hall], at the suggestion of Mr.
Russell, take the liberty of accompanying it with the following
graphic and touching letter, which, although written exclusively
for private perusal, will deeply interest those who have read the
admirable ballad whose simplicity, terseness, and pathos, it so
exquisitely conveys in the melody of sound.

                                       New-York Mirror Office, }
                                           _February_ 1, 1837. }

  My Dear Sir,---You did me the honour to request some lines of
mine for music; and, at the moment, being delighted with your fine
voice and exquisite taste in singing, I said I would write a song.
Now, I think with our friend Knowles, that a promise given, when
it can be kept, admits not of release, "save by consent or
forfeiture of those who hold it," and so I have been as good as
my word, as you will perceive by the enclosure of "The Oak." I
hope it will answer your purpose. Let me tell you how I came to
choose an old tree for my subject. Riding out of town on
horseback, a few days since, in company with a friend, who was
once the expectant heir of the largest estate in America, but
over whose worldly prospects a blight has recently come, he
invited me to turn down a little romantik woodland pass not far
from Bloomingdale. "Your object?" I inquired. "Merely to look
once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather, near a
cottage that was once my father's." "The place is your's then?"
said I. "No, my poor mother sold it;" and I observed a slight
quiver of the lip, at the recollection of that circumstance.
"Dear mother!" resumed my companion, "we passed many happy,
_happy_ days, in that old cottage; but it's nothing to me
now---father, mother, sisters, cottage---all are gone;" and a
paleness overspread his fine contenance, and a moisture came to
his eyes as he spoke. But after a moment's pause, he said,
"Don't think me foolish: I don't know how it is, I never ride
out but to turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have
a thousand recollections about it, and always greet it as a
familiar and well-remembered friend. In the by-gone summer-time
it was a friend indeed. I often listened to the good counsel of
my parents there, and I have had _such_ gambols with my
sisters! Its leaves are all off now, so you won't see it to
half of its advantage, for it is a glorious old fellow in summer; 
but _I_ like it full as well in very winter time." These words
were scarcely uttered, when my companion cried out, "There it is!"
and he sprang from his saddle and ran toward it. I soon overtook
him, wondering at his haste; but what met my site, made it no
wonder. Near the tree stood an old man with his coat off,
sharpening an axe. He was the occupant of the cottage. "What are
you going to do with that axe?" "What's that to you," was the
reply. "A little matter, but not much---you're not going to cut
it down surely?" "Yes, but I am, though," said the woodman.
"What for," inquired my companion almost choked with emotion.
"What for? why, because I think it proper to do so: what for?
I like that! Well I'll tell you what for: this tree makes my
dwelling unhealthy: it stands too near the house; prevents the
moisture from exhaling, and renders us all liable to fever-and-
ague." "Who told you that?" "Why, Dr. -----." "Have you any
other reason for wishing to cut it down?" "Yes, I am getting
old, the woods are a great way off, and this tree is of some
value to me to burn." He was soon convinced, however, that the
story about the fever-and-ague was a mere fiction, for there
never had been a case of that disease in its neighbourhood;
and then was asked what the tree was worth for firewood?
"Why, when it is down about ten dollars." "Suppose I should
give you that sum, would you let it stand?" "Yes." "You're
sure of that?" "Positive." "Then draw me a bond to that
effect." I drew it up; it was witnessed by his daughter; the
money was paid, and we left the place, with an assurance from
the young girl, who looked as smiling and beautiful as a Hebe,
that the tree should stand as long as she lived. We returned
to the turnpike, and pursued our ride. These circumstances
made a strong impression on my mind, and furnished me with the
materials for the song I send you. I hope you will like it,
and pardon me for this long and hurried letter.
          With sentiments of respect,
                  I remain,
                        Yours, very truly,
                                             GEO. P. MORRIS.
Henry Russell, Esq.

1.
Woodman spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now;
'Twas my fore father's hand
That placed it near the cot,
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

2.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth, bound ties;
Oh! spare that ag-ed oak
Now towering to the skies!

3.
When but a idle boy
  I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
  Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kiss'd me here;
  My father press'd my hand--
Forgive this foolish tear,
  But let that old oak stand!

4.
My heart-strings round thee cling,
  Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
  And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
  And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
  Thy axe shall harm it not.