Songs of the soil; a small sheaf of verse from the field where poetry is lived . Page Seventy-one The Old Songs Page Seventy-two 1^ =^ When I hear somebody singing The songs of long ago,Comes a soothing, gentle feeling— Recollections things long since forgotten, The fragrances that last,Are re-wakened by the singing Of the old songs of the past. All the twilight songs my mother Used to sing—the cradle hymn—When I hear them now, the heart beat Quickens—and the tears that swimIn the old eyes, blur the present And I hear the thumped we tired, sleepy children Beat upo
Songs of the soil; a small sheaf of verse from the field where poetry is lived . Page Seventy-one The Old Songs Page Seventy-two 1^ =^ When I hear somebody singing The songs of long ago,Comes a soothing, gentle feeling— Recollections things long since forgotten, The fragrances that last,Are re-wakened by the singing Of the old songs of the past. All the twilight songs my mother Used to sing—the cradle hymn—When I hear them now, the heart beat Quickens—and the tears that swimIn the old eyes, blur the present And I hear the thumped we tired, sleepy children Beat upon the counterpane. Not by sight, but feeling, memry Plays—and means life to the old;Things without her would be dreary. And the world be dull and a memry intertwining With the songs of long , playing near the heartstrings. Makes them prized and treasured Page Seventy-three The Sideline Patriot Page Seventy-four When trumpets blare, and in the air Old Glory stately waves;When from the crowd, the cheeringloud He hears—a fight he tense he stands and sees thebands Go proudly marching by,He feels just then like all brave men, For country he could die. Hark! Bugle call!—the buttons all Go popping from his vest;He, neath the sod, could put a squad Or regiment to in his dream, the eagles scream Is music to his ears;The marching tars or regulars. They fill his eyes with tears. When Ladies Aid, or suffs parade, A patriotic thrillShoots up his spine, and into line He falls—he cant keep arguments about defense. He always takes a hand;Three million men we need—andthen More ships to guard our land. When you suggest he join the restAt army camp, and train, He says: Good -night — I hate tofight;* * By George, it looks like rain.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, bookidsongsofsoils, bookyear1922
