Bellaire Manor

Down the stairs I run,
Past the two small white-walled rooms.
One, two, three,
Past the two high-ceilinged rooms.
Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty,
Past the two large state-rooms now,
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,
And into the warm inviting seventh room.
Forty seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.
And now as I sit,
I have to think,
“What do these seven rooms know?”
How long they’ve stood?
Two hundred and ninety two years it’s been
And known a many thing.
It’s last through three wars at home,
And many more abroad.
It’s older than the country in
Which it now does stand.
It has seen things as a colony,
As a nation torn apart, And now at last as a united land.