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Rh This batch of stolen property, Stolen from the graveyard in Hubbardton Packed it in a box on some straw, In a box made from the native pine, Nailed with wrought nails of iron, Nails made by native blacksmiths, Native blacksmiths from Hubbardton, The land of battle, but not of song. These three mighty armies fell into line, They formed one grand procession, They took up their long line of march To the wild woods of Hubbardton, The land of battle, but not of song, The land of cider and bean porridge, The land of johnny cake and hominy, The land of early rose potatoes.

We have met to-night to commemorate The forty-ninth anniversary