| Poem: |
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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