Farm Ballads | Page 7

good;" And the little whitewood coffin on the table there was set, And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I could see it yet.
Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, you know;?Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en-a'most let go;?And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the Lord his due,?When the doctor said the fever'd turned, an' he could fetch you through.
Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear:?Christenin's, funerals, weddin's--what haven't we had here? Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got,?And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.
Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new;?All the hurry and worry is just as good as through;?But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say, There's precious things in this old house we never can take away.
Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before:?Winds will whistle through it, and rains will flood the floor; And over the hearth, once blazing, the snow-drifts oft will pile, And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' all the while.
Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see, But you seem like a human being--a dear old friend to me;?And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands, Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way--
"OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE, I'M TRUDGIN' MY WEARY WAY."
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray--?I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,?As many another woman that's only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer!?Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,?But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame??Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame??True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;?But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.
I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day?To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;?For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,?If any body only is willin' to have me round.
Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul--?Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;?And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,?For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,?But many a house an' home was open then to me;?Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,?And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;?For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,?And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.
And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,?With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;?Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,?An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.
So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;?Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.
Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!--?I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;?And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,?And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;?When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.
Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;?And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
"TILL AT LAST HE WENT A-COURTIN', AND BROUGHT A WIFE FROM TOWN."
She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile--?She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;?But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;?But she was hard and proud, an' I