THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL
This is “The old Home by the Mill”—fer we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and the old folks—the old spring, and a few
Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!
Here, Marg'et!—fetch the man a tin to drink out of! Our spring
Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't “taste” anything!
She's kindo' agin', Marg'et is—“the old process”—like me,
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here—like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.
The oldest gyrl—the first that went—married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement—fer purt' nigh thirty year!
And youngest one—was allus fer the old home here—but no!—
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!
I don't miss them like Marg'et does—'cause I got her, you see;
And when she pines for them—that's 'cause she's only jest got me!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.—But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed then t'other way!
I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when us two come to die,
I'd 'dopt the “new process,” in full, ef Marg'et died, you see,—
I'd jest crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!
