Bodies Pile Up in Detroit Morgue; Poor Can’t Afford Burial

Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger, With power over ocean and desert afar, Ye have gone with our wanderers through distance and danger, And gladdened their path like a homeguiding star. With the breath of our mountains in summers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from the sand, With hope for their country and joy from her banished. Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. (Francis Brown)