Away Down Home
‘T will not be long before they hearThe bullbat on the hill,And in the valley through the duskThe pastoral whippoorwill.A few more friendly suns will callThe bluets through the loamAnd star the lanes with buttercupsAway down home.
“Knee-deep!” from reedy placesWill sing the river frogs.The terrapins will sun themselvesOn all the jutting logs.The angler’s cautious oar will leaveA trail of drifting foamAlong the shady currentsAway down home.
The mocking-bird will feel againThe glory of his wings,And wanton through the balmy airAnd sunshine while he sings,With a new cadence in his call,The glint-wing’d crow will roamFrom field to newly-furrowed fieldAway down home.
When dogwood blossoms mingleWith the maple’s modest red,And sweet arbutus wakes at lastFrom out her winter’s bed,‘T would not seem strange at all to meetA dryad or a gnome,Or Pan or Psyche in the woodsAway down home.
Then come with me, thou weary heart!Forget thy brooding ills,Since God has come to walk amongHis valleys and his hills!The mart will never miss thee,Nor the scholar’s dusty tome,And the Mother waits to bless thee,Away down home.