The Old Home

The Old Home 

by Arthur Burdick

You talk about your palaces
Fixed out in modern style,
With roofs of slate an' brownstone fronts
An' floors all laid in tile,
With water hot, an' water cold,
An' steam instead of fire,
An' all the modern gimcrack things
A body could desire :
Them kind o' buildin's are all right,
But somehow don't tempt me;
I like the old-style houses best,
Jest like they used to be.

Give me the old-time cabin home
Amid its bed o' flowers,
Where first I saw the light o' day
An' spent my boyhood's hours,
The fields o' green grass all around
In which I used to roll,
An' let the streamin' sunlight warm
Shine through upon my soul ;
An' then the tangled wildwood near,
The air so pure an' free,
A hundred thousand birds or so
A-singin' songs to me.

Oh, palaces ain't in it much
Along o' my old home,
With meadows wide on every side,
An' room to romp and roam.
I wouldn't trade the balmy air
An' scent o' flowers so sweet
Fer all the brownstone palaces
Upon a city street.
It sets my heart to achin' like
Fer childhood's days once more,
An' a sight o' that old cabin,
With posies 'bout the door.