Riley Songs of Home | Page 6

one,?And much too much of the other.
THE QUEST
I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way,?With eyes as blue as the skies of May,?And a face as fair as the summer dawn?--?You answer back, but I wander on,--?For you say: "Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray,?And his face as dim as a rainy day."
Good friends, I query, I search for Love;?His eyes are as blue as the skies above,?And his smile as bright as the midst of May?When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way??And one says: "Ay; but his face, alack!?Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black."
O who will tell me of Love? I cry!?His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky,?And his face as bright as the morning sun;?And you answer and mock me, every one,?That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan,?And he passed you frowning and wandered on.
But stout of heart will I onward fare,?Knowing my Love is beyond--somewhere,--?The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue,?And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you;?And on from the hour his trail is found?I shall sing sonnets the whole year round.
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THE MULBERRY TREE
It's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind?As I think of my childhood so long left behind;?The home of my birth, with it's old puncheon-floor,?And the bright morning-glories that growed round the door;?The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off?Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,?Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,?And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.
And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,?I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,?And the long purple berries that rained on the ground?Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.?And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,?I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed?With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee?To foller them off to the mulberry tree.
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Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,?And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,?And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,?The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.?But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore?As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more--?What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,?With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!
Then it's who can fergit the old mulberry tree?That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free?As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out?Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about??O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,?Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,?And, a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,?They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
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FOR YOU
For you, I could forget the gay?Delirium of merriment,?And let my laughter die away?In endless silence of content.?I could forget, for your dear sake,?The utter emptiness and ache?Of every loss I ever knew.--?What could I not forget for you?
I could forget the just deserts?Of mine own sins, and so erase?The tear that burns, the smile that hurts,?And all that mars or masks my face.?For your fair sake I could forget?The bonds of life that chafe and fret,?Nor care if death were false or true.--?What could I not forget for you?
What could I not forget? Ah me!?One thing, I know, would still abide?Forever in my memory,?Though all of love were lost beside--?I yet would feel how first the wine?Of your sweet lips made fools of mine?Until they sung, all drunken through--?"What could I not forget for you?"
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A FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS-AIR
They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.?That's about as much of a mystery?As ever I've run ag'in!--?Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight?And gineral health, I swear?They's a goneness somers I can't quite state--?A kind o' feel in the air.
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They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right?To the spot where a man lives at!--?It gives a feller a' appetite--?They ain't no doubt about that!--?And yit they's somepin'--I don't know what--?That follers me, here and there,?And ha'nts and worries and spares me not--?A kind o' feel in the air!
They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest?As blame-don sad as sweet!--?In the same ra-sho as I feel the best?And am spryest on my feet,?They's allus a kind o' sort of a' ache?That I can't lo-cate no-where;--?But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake!--?A kind o' feel in the air.
Is it the racket the childern raise?--?W'y, no_!--God bless 'em!--_no!--?Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze--?Like my own wuz, long ago?--?Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat?O' the little toy-drum and blare?O' the horn?--No!