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Edgar Guest - Folks
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We was speakin` of folks, jes` common folks, 
An` we come to this conclusion, 
That wherever they be, on land or sea, 
They warm to a home allusion; 
That under the skin an` under the hide 
There`s a spark that starts a-glowin` 
Whenever they look at a scene or book 
That something of home is showin`. 

They may differ in creeds an` politics, 
They may argue an` even quarrel, 
But their throats grip tight, 
If they catch a sight 
Of their favorite elm or laurel. 
An` the winding lane that they used to tread 
With never a care to fret `em, 
Or the pasture gate where they used to wait, 
Right under the skin will get `em. 

Now folks is folks on their different ways, 
With their different griefs an` pleasures, 
But the home they knew, when their years were few, 
Is the dearest of all their treasures. 
An` the richest man to the poorest waif 
Right under the skin is brother 
When they stand an` sigh, 
With a tear-dimmed eye, 
At a thought of the dear old mother. 

It makes no difference where it may be, 
Nor the fortunes that years may alter, 
Be they simple or wise, the old home ties 
Make all of `em often falter. 
Time may robe `em in sackcloth coarse 
Or garb `em in gorgeous splendor, 
But whatever their lot, they keep one spot 
Down deep that is sweet an` tender. 

We was speakin` of folks, jes` common folks, 
An` we come to this conclusion, 
That one an` all, be they great or small, 
Will warm to a home allusion; 
That under the skin an` the beaten hide 
They`re kin in a real affection 
For the joys they knew, 
When their years were few, 
An` the home of their recollection.
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