Wednesday, May 15, 2013


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!
                                                         -Turn over.

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