Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|MEMORIES OF HOME.|
Thoughts of the dear old homestead
Haunt my memory to-day;
Thoughts of my home, my childhood's home
Far away, far, far away.
Far away in East Kentucky,
There beneath her towering hills,
Rich in forestry and beauty,
Watered well with brooks and rills,
On a farm--the old, old homestead--
Which to me is still endeared,
I was born a baby tiny,
And to womanhood was reared.
Lilacs purple, roses yellow,
Massive blooms of snow-balls white,
Beautiful the ample door-yard
In the sunny springtime bright.
Woodbines sweet and morning-glories
Rife with butterflies and bees
Climbed and clambered round the doorway
In the sunshine and the breeze.
Often rang through that old farm house
Childish voices gay and sweet;
Oft its walls of log have echoed
Patter of the childish feet.
Down below the apple orchard
From a fern-clad mossy bank
Where the naiads love to linger,
Where the elders, tall and rank,
And the willows cast their shadows,
Where the night-birds sweetly sing
To the moonlight and the starlight,
Bubbled forth a sylvan spring.
Oh, my eyes are getting tear-filled,
As before my memory come
Those scenes of my early childhood
In my East Kentucky home.
Which is now fore'er deserted
By my father's bright household;
It has now been changed and altered,
Into strangers' hands been sold.
Some of that dear homestead's members,
Many past-gone years have trod
In a far and distant country:
Others sleep beneath the sod.
O'er the graves of those dear dead ones
Marked by moss-grown chiseled stone
All the years in wild luxuriance
Have the grass and flowers grown.