 The Aged Stranger, by Francis Bret Hart, read for LibriVox.org. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, Say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, where thy feet are weary and sore. I WAS with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, Nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man. And as I remarked before, I was with Grant. Nay, nay, I know, said the farmer. Say no more, he fell in battle. I see it last. Doubt it's smooth these tidings o'er. Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How he fell with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore. And say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man. And should have remarked before that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore that aged man, who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Age Stranger by Francis Brad Hart. Read for LibriVox.org by Andrea Fiore. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, say no more. But rest thee here at by cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, nay no more. I prithee sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke in the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man. And as I remarked before, I was with Grant. Nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see alas, thou'd smooth these tidings o'er. Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat him with his fist full sore. That aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Bret Hart, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts. THE AGED STRANGER I was with Grant, the Stranger said. Said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the Stranger said. Said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board, and eat at my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and, as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, icy, alas! Thou didst smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced that uniform that he wore! I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant, in Illinois, some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore, that aged man, who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more, he fell in battle. I see, alas, thou didst smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? O say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore? I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant, in Illinois, some three years before the war. Again the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fistful sore that aged man, who had worked for Grant, some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart, read for LibriVox.org by Carol Stripley. I was with Grant, the Stranger said. Said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the Stranger said. Said the farmer, nay, no more, I prithee sit at my frugal board, and eat of my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy, of the old ninth army corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou dis-smooth these tidings, or, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore, o say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore? I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fistful sore that aged man, who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart Read for Libervox.org by David Fetterman I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more, I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps, I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou'd smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? O say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat him with his fistful sore, that aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart Read for LibriVox.org By David Lawrence in Brampton, Ontario December 30, 2008 I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more. I prithee sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old ninth army core, I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and, as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou did smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore, oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and I should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore of that aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Bret Hart, read for LibriVox.org by Donna Stewart, January 6, 2009, Seattle, Washington. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty, sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy of the old ninth Army Corps. I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou'dst smooth these tidings, or, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not, that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. But then the farmer spake never a word and beat with his fist full sore that aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart. Read for LibriVox.org by Kay Oliver. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle. I see, alas, thou dot smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth whatever it may be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore, o say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore? I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant, in Illinois, some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat him with his fist full sore, that aged man who had worked for Grant, some three years before the war. End of poem, this poem is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger, by Francis Brett Hart, read for LibriVox dot org, by Karen Yamada. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board, and eat of my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy, of the old night-tharmy core? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou didst smooth these tidings, oh, nay, smeak the truth, whatever it be, that rend my bosom's core. How felly, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore, oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant, in Illinois, some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him, never a word, but beat with his fist full sore, that aged man who had worked for Grant, some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, nay, no more. I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps. I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke in the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant. Nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou'd smooth these tidings o'er. Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore, that aged man, who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart Read for LibraVox.org by Matthew Jackson, a.k.a. Podfoxer. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, Nay, no more, I prit thee sit at my frugal board, and eat of my humble store. It fares my boy, my soldier boy of the old Ninth Army corpse. I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and, as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay I know, said the farmer, say no more, he fell in battle. I see, alas, thou dis-smooth these tidings o'er, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore? I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before that I was with Grant. In Illinois, some three years before the war, then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore that aged man, who had worked for Grant, some three years before the war. End of The Aged Stranger. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Bret Hart, read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Federman. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said. Said the farmer, nay, no more, I prithee sit at my frugal board, and eat of my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant. Nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou didst smooth these tidings, or, nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore. That aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem, this recordings in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart, read for LibriVox.org by Roger Maline. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more, I pretty sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fair is my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke in the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay, I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see, alas, thou'd smooth these tidings o'er. Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? Oh, say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore! I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore, that aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Aged Stranger by Francis Brett Hart I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, say no more, but rest thee here at my cottage porch, for thy feet are weary and sore. I was with Grant, the stranger said, said the farmer, nay, no more, I prithee sit at my frugal board and eat of my humble store. How fares my boy, my soldier boy, of the old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly in the smoke and the battle's roar. I know him not, said the aged man, and as I remarked before, I was with Grant, nay, nay I know, said the farmer, say no more. He fell in battle, I see alas, thou didst smooth these tidings o'er. Nay, speak the truth whatever it be, though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he, with his face to the foe, upholding the flag he bore? O say not that my boy disgraced the uniform that he wore. I cannot tell, said the aged man, and should have remarked before, that I was with Grant in Illinois some three years before the war. Then the farmer spake him never a word, but beat with his fist full sore, that aged man who had worked for Grant some three years before the war.