Thoughts of Home

                                         Joe Cone, Sept. 23, ‘07

O sing me a song of the bygone days;

     Of the days of long ago;

A song of home and the ones I loved

     A ballad both sweet and low.

I long for the song that lures me back

     Where I used to roam and play;

 (sing)

So sing me a song for my dear old country home,

     For my childhood’s happy home far away.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of the past,

     The cottage, the orchard, and all;

The roses that fell o’er the door of the ell,

     The garden and vine-covered wall.

The old rustic fence, the well-sweep and curb,

     The lawn where the black cherries fell;

 (sing)

And the oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,

     The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.

And down the shaded village street,

     With hard and grimy hands,

With heart of gold, now bent and old,

     The village smithy stands.

Behind which flows the laughing brook,

     Forget its voice? No, never!

 (sing)

“For men may come and men may go,

     But I go on forever.”

Then I recall a day of sorrow

     When our sun of hope had set;

When a letter from my brother

     Filled us with a strange regret.

From the bloody field of battle

     Came this sorrow-breathing strain:

 (sing)

“But you’ll not forget me mother,

     If I’m numbered with the slain.”

Many were the hearts that were weary at night

     Wishing for the war to cease;

Many were the hours we watched and prayed

     To see the dawn of peace.

Then joy flashed o’er our humble home

     When came this welcome sound:

 (sing)

“We’re leaving tonight, leaving tonight

     Leaving the old camp ground.”

And still the visions of the past

     Come crowding through my brain;

The swimming pool, the wooded hills,

     The fields of waving grain.

And with the dear old poet

     To this one thought I’ve come:

 (sing)

“Be it ever so humble

     There’s no place like home.”