Tell The Dear Old Body

    'Oh my heart is sad and weary
    Everywhere I roam,
    Longing for the old plantation
    And for the old folks at home.'

    "Summer days are over,
    Summer work is done;
    Harvests have been gathered
    Gayly one by one.
    Now the feast is eaten,
    Finished is the play;
    But one rite remains for
    Our Thanksgiving-day.

    "Best of all the harvest
    In the dear God's sight,
    Are the happy children
    In the home to-night;
    And we come to offer
    Thanks where thanks are due,
    With grateful hearts and voices,
    Father, mother, unto you."

    'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind,
    Are frail and failing sair;
    And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad,
    Gin I come hame nae mair.
    The grist is out, the times are hard,
    The kine are only three;
    I canna leave the auld folk now.
    We'd better bide a wee.


    'I fear me sair they're failing baith;
    For when I sit apart,
    They talk o' Heaven so earnestly,
    It well nigh breaks my heart.
    So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
    It surely winna be;
    I canna leave the auld folk yet.
    We'd better bide a wee.'

    "Gingerbread,
    Go to the head.
    Your task is done;
    A soul is won.
    Take it and go
    Where muffins grow,
    Where sweet loaves rise
    To the very skies,
    And biscuits fair
    Perfume the air.
    Away, away!
    Make no delay;
    In the sea of flour
    Plunge this hour.
    Safe in your breast
    Let the yeast-cake rest,
    Till you rise in joy,
    A white bread boy!"

"Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!"

    Sweet, sweet days are passing
    O'er my happy home.
    Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
    Cold are the days when winter comes again.
    When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
    Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink ;
    Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
    Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."