Authors and Writers Associated With Morristown With a Chapter On Historic Morristown

These are the winter quarters, this is where The Patriot Chieftain with his army lay, When frosty winds swept down and chilled the air, And long, cold nights closed out the shorter day. The bell still rings within the white church spire, Rising toward heaven upon the village green, Whose chimes then called the people, pastor, choir, To praise and pray each Sabbath morn and e'en. And there with them, the Christian soldier sealed The common covenant which a dying Lord, To those who broke bread with him last revealed, And bade them ever thus His love record. A country hamlet then, nor did it lose Its rural charms and beauties for long years; The stranger would its quiet glories choose, Far from the toils and strifes of daily cares. The people, too, were simple in their ways, And dwelt contented in their humble sphere, The morning and the evening of their days, Passing the same with every closing year. There were the Deacons, solemn, sober, staid, Beneath the pulpit each Communion Sunday, They never smiled, but sung there psalms and prayed; And then made whiskey at the still on Monday. Perhaps you smile just here, I only say, Men did not deem it then a heinous crime; Such was the common custom of the day, As those can tell who recollect the time. For further proof of this, look up the tract Of Deacon Giles and his distillery, Where you will find that for this very fact, He was set up high in the pillory.