1 O skeptic, spare that book!
Touch not a single leaf;
Nor on its pages look
With eyes of unbelief.
‘Twas my forefather’s stay,
In hours of agony;
O skeptic, go thy way,
And let that old book be.

2 That good old book of life,
For centuries hath stood;
Unharmed amidst the strife,
When earth was drunk with blood.
And wouldst thou harm it now,
Or have its truths forgot?
O skeptic, go thy way,
Thy hand shall harm it not.

3 Its very name recalls
The happy hours of youth,
When in my grandsire’s halls,
I heard its tales of truth.
I’ve seen his white hair flow
O’er the volume as he read,
But that was long ago,
And the good old man is dead.

4 My dear grandmother, too,
When I was but a boy,
I’ve seen her eyes of blue
Weep o’er it tears of joy.
Her tears they linger still,
And dear they are to me;
O skeptic, go thy way,
And let that old book be.