The Old Homestead
’Tis an old deserted homesteadOn the outskirts of the town,Where the roof is all moss-covered,And the walls are tumbling down;But around that little cottageDo my brightest mem’ries cling,For ’twas there I spent the momentsOf my youth,—life’s happy spring.
I remember how I used toSwing upon the old front gate,While the robin in the tree topsSung a night song to his mate;And how later in the evening,As the beaux were wont to do,Mr. Perkins, in the parlor,Sat and sparked my sister Sue.
There my mother—heaven bless her!—Kissed or spanked as was our need,And by smile or stroke implantedIn our hearts fair virtue’s seed;While my father, man of wisdom,Lawyer keen, and farmer stout,Argued long with neighbor DobbinsHow the corn crops would turn out.
Then the quiltings and the dances—How my feet were wont to fly,While the moon peeped through the barn chinksFrom her stately place on high.Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy,Ever backward o’er me roll;Still the music of that farm lifeRings an echo in my soul.
Now the old place is deserted,And the walls are falling down;All who made the home life cheerful,Now have died or moved to town.But about that dear old cottageShall my mem’ries ever cling,For ’twas there I spent the momentsOf my, youth,—life’s happy spring.