If I could only sort apart
The words that seem to crowd my heart,
Perhaps I could true honor pay
This old landmark of yesterday.
It stood the test of storms and years
A tribute to the pioneers
Who gave it strength with every beam,
And willed to it…a lasting dream.
All travellers, both rich and poor,
Were welcomed at this tavern door,
A friendly word for every guest,
A gracious meal, a night of rest.
If this old Inn could only tell
The stories that it knew so well
Of men bound for the Western plains,
Of men known for ill-gotten gains.
The characters the stagecoach brought,
The men who in the wars had fought,
Adventurers…so rough and bold
Drawn westward by the lust for gold.
It knew the weak, it knew the strong,
Its walls have echoed frontier songs;
As doctors, merchants, one and all,
Came up the trace…and paid a call.
The years passed by, the world rolled on,
And this old Inn…its glory gone;
Was left to face the world alone,
A monument to Richard Stone.
Dust gathered on the puncheon floor,
And weeds and vines grew by the door,
Yet, there were those who wondered why
The apathetic passed it by.
Historic shrines have many friends
Whose dedication never ends,
Who constantly work to preserve,
And mark old sites…as they deserve.
Without the sun, without the rain,
No tree great stature could attain;
No garnered harvest wealth be shared
Without the toil of those who cared.
Thank God for those…who effort gave,
This old historic shrine to save,
Who planned this day that we might see
Stone’s Tavern…as it used to be.