 | The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley |  |
1980
HOME-FOLKS
Home-folks!—Well, that-air name, to me,
Sounds jis the same as poetry—
That is, ef poetry is jis
As sweet as I've hearn tell it is!
Sounds jis the same as poetry—
That is, ef poetry is jis
As sweet as I've hearn tell it is!
Home-Folks—they're jis the same as kin—
All brung up, same as we have bin,
Without no overpowerin' sense
Of their oncommon consequence!
All brung up, same as we have bin,
Without no overpowerin' sense
Of their oncommon consequence!
They've bin to school, but not to git
The habit fastened on 'em yit
So as to ever interfere
With other work 'at's waitin' here:
The habit fastened on 'em yit
So as to ever interfere
With other work 'at's waitin' here:
Home-Folks has crops to plant and plow,
Er lives in town and keeps a cow;
But whether country-jakes er town-,
They know when eggs is up er down!
Er lives in town and keeps a cow;
But whether country-jakes er town-,
They know when eggs is up er down!
La! can't you spot 'em—when you meet
'Em anywheres—in field er street?
And can't you see their faces, bright
As circus-day, heave into sight?
'Em anywheres—in field er street?
And can't you see their faces, bright
As circus-day, heave into sight?
1981
And can't you hear their “Howdy!” clear
As a brook's chuckle to the ear,
And allus find their laughin' eyes
As fresh and clear as morning skies?
As a brook's chuckle to the ear,
And allus find their laughin' eyes
As fresh and clear as morning skies?
And can't you—when they've gone away—
Jis feel 'em shakin' hands, all day?
And feel, too, you've bin higher raised
By sich a meetin'?—God be praised!
Jis feel 'em shakin' hands, all day?
And feel, too, you've bin higher raised
By sich a meetin'?—God be praised!
Oh, Home-Folks! you're the best of all
'At ranges this terreschul ball,—
But, north er south, er east er west,
It's home is where you're at your best.—
'At ranges this terreschul ball,—
But, north er south, er east er west,
It's home is where you're at your best.—
It's home—it's home your faces shine,
In-nunder your own fig and vine—
Your fambly and your neighbers 'bout
Ye, and the latch-string hangin' out.
In-nunder your own fig and vine—
Your fambly and your neighbers 'bout
Ye, and the latch-string hangin' out.
[OMITTED]
Home-Folks—at home,—I know o' one
Old feller now 'at hain't got none.—
Invite him—he may hold back some—
But you invite him, and he'll come.
Old feller now 'at hain't got none.—
Invite him—he may hold back some—
But you invite him, and he'll come.
| The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley | |