The Old Home by the Mill
This is 'The old Home by the Mill’—far we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few
Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!
Here, Marg’et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of’ Our spring
Keeps kindo-sorto cavin’ in, but don’t 'taste’ anything!
She’s kindo agein’, Marg’et is—'the old process,' like me,
All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
Jes’ me and Marg’et lives alone here—like in long ago;
The childern all put off and gone, and married, don’t you know?
One’s millin’ way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one’s in Illinoise.
The oldest gyrl—the first that went—married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn’s Settlement—for purt’ nigh thirty year!
And youngest one—was allus far the old home here—but no!—
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!
I don’t miss them like _Marg’et_ does—'cause I got _her_, you see;
And when she pines for them—that’s 'cause _she’s_ only jes’ got
_me_!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.—But talkin’ sense, I’ll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t’other way!
I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin’; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
I’d ‘dopt the ’new process’ in full, ef _Marg’et_ died, you see,—
I’d jes’ crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!
