The Old Home Town

There lives in your heart -- I can see it, dear man --

Though it may be a way deep down;

There lives in your heart -- ah, deny it who can --

A dream of the old home town.

You would love to go back to that dear hallowed place

Where so many long years ago

You could see at the doorway the sweet smiling face

Of the one who had made it so.

You would love her to chide you for coming home late,

Back again from the old swimmin' hole,

And bid you sit down to dry bread on a plate

And some milk in a cracked china bowl.

You would love to go fishing again, I would say,

With a willow and pin on a string,

Where the river goes murmuring down to the bay

And the birds in the woodland sing.

Oh yes, and ride down to the old public square

On the fleet little, trim little nag

for a game with the boys who are gathering there

To play marbles or baseball or tag.

Or be sitting at desk in the school on the hill,

Two rows, maybe three, from the lass

Whose prim braded locks gave you more of a thrill

Than the things they discussed in the class.

Or, perchance, to go coasting when winter has come,

With the same pretty girl on your sled,

And to capture again the sweet echoes of some

Of the laughter and words that she said.

Or to meet your best pal coming up through the lane

From the pasture at night with the cows,

When you knew his approach from the whistled refrain,

As familiar as furrows and ploughs.

Yes, how well I do know -- to live through it again,

You would give your inherited crown

For the best of your life were the happy days when

You grew up in the old home town!