Acrost the swellin' flood O' years
Whose waters ever climbin' higher
Sweep off so much we fondly loved
When life wuz young an' heaven nigher,
I glimpse, as on. some fur-off shore,
The humble farm-house unpretentious
Where first our spirits bubbled forth
While stern-faced parents tried to quench us.
I see its parlor, locked an' barred
Except when company wuz callin',
To us it wuz the room 0' state
Though furnished in a style appallin':
The hair-cloth chairs, the hangin' lamp,
The gilded what-not in the corner,
The family portraits - one had died
An' all the rest seemed doomed to mourn 'er.
The card-board motto on the wall
How often have I stopped to view it
"There is no place like home," it read,
A fact far truer than we knew it.
An', in the center of the room
Upon its table safe reposin',
The album - never failin' cure
When well-fed vis'ters started dozin'.
"You like to look at photygraphs?"
No caller could evade the question. .
We laid the album on his knees
An' gathered 'round in eager session:
"I bet you can't guess who that is
Rigged out in thatj long li~en duster?
That's gran'pop, years an' years ago
My gran'ma sez he wuz a buster!