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Eugene Field - "The Old Homestead"
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JEST as atween the awk`ard lines a hand we love has penn`d
  Appears a meanin` hid from other eyes,
So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend,
  A power o` tearful, sweet seggestion lies.
We see it all--the pictur` that our mem`ries hold so dear--
  The homestead in New England far away,
An` the vision is so nat`ral-like we almost seem to hear
  The voices that were heshed but yesterday.

Ah, who`d ha` thought the music of that distant childhood time
  Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years
To waken into melodies like Chris`mas bells a-chime
  An` to claim the ready tribute of our tears!
Why, the robins in the maples an` the blackbirds round the pond,
  The crickets an` the locusts in the leaves,
The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond,
  An` the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves--
They all come troopin` back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day,
  An` they seem to sing with all the joyous zest
Of the days when we were Yankee boys an` Yankee girls at play,
  With nary thought of "livin` way out West"!

God bless ye, Denman Thomps`n, for the good y` do our hearts,
  With this music an` these memories o` youth--
God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts,
  The good ol` Yankee faculty of Truth!
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