The Old Brown Bean Pot

How dear to my heart were the beans of my childhood,

In fond recollection I munch them to-night;

The baked beans, the brown bread, the pork that was b’iled good,

And placed in the middle to add to the sight.

How anxious, how eager I was to walk by it,

That mammoth brown bean pot to get a brief smell;

How patient how loving I hovered anigh it,

While waiting for father to come home from the well.

The old earthen bean pot, the grease covered bean pot,

The brown colored bean pot I guarded so well.

Sept. 10, ‘92

Pub. in Boston Courier, Nov. 25, 1894