Farm Ballads Part 3

Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through.

Only a bounden duty remains for you and I-- And that's to stand on the door-step, here, and bid the old house good-bye.

"AND BID THE OLD HOUSE GOOD-BYE."

What a sh.e.l.l we've lived in, these nineteen or twenty years!

Wonder it hadn't smashed in, and tumbled about our ears; Wonder it's stuck together, and answered till to-day; But every individual log was put up here to stay.

Things looked rather new, though, when this old house was built; And things that blossomed you would've made some women wilt; And every other day, then, as sure as day would break, My neighbor Ager come this way, invitin' me to "shake."

And you, for want of neighbors, was sometimes blue and sad, For wolves and bears and wild-cats was the nearest ones you had; But lookin' ahead to the clearin', we worked with all our might, Until we was fairly out of the woods, and things was goin' right.

Look up there at our new house!--ain't it a thing to see?

Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be; All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves, And never a debt to say but what we own it all ourselves.

Look at our old log-house--how little it now appears!

But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years; An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun-- There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you remember how rich we was that night, When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight: We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's new, But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun: Kitchen and parlor and bedroom--we had 'em all in one; And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West, Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheering words; Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet the songs of birds; And home grew sweeter and brighter--our courage began to mount-- And things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

And here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad, We fell in a deep old quarrel--the first we ever had; And when you give out and cried, then I, like a fool, give in, And then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done, And you was a-makin' clothing that wasn't for either one; And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say, And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods away.

Then our first-born baby--a regular little joy, Though I fretted a little because it wasn't a boy: Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all her pouts and smiles?

Why, settlers come to see that show a half a dozen miles.

"SETTLERS COME TO SEE THAT SHOW A HALF A DOZEN MILES."

Yonder sat the cradle--a homely, home-made thing, And many a night I rocked it, providin' you would sing; And many a little squatter brought up with us to stay-- And so that cradle, for many a year, was never put away.

How they kept a-comin', so cunnin' and fat and small!

How they growed! 'twas a wonder how we found room for 'em all; But though the house was crowded, it empty seemed that day When Jennie lay by the fire-place, there, and moaned her life away.

And right in there the preacher, with Bible and hymn-book, stood,

"RIGHT IN THERE THE PREACHER, WITH BIBLE AND HYMN-BOOK STOOD."

"'Twixt the dead and the living," and "hoped 'twould do us good;"

And the little whitewood coffin on the table there was set, And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I could see it yet.

Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, you know; Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en-a'most let go; And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the Lord his due, When the doctor said the fever'd turned, an' he could fetch you through.

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear: Christenin's, funerals, weddin's--what haven't we had here?

Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got, And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.

Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through; But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say, There's precious things in this old house we never can take away.

Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before: Winds will whistle through it, and rains will flood the floor; And over the hearth, once blazing, the snow-drifts oft will pile, And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' all the while.

Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see, But you seem like a human being--a dear old friend to me; And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands, Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way--

"OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE, I'M TRUDGIN' MY WEARY WAY."

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear!

Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer!

Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?

Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?

True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If any body only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a han'some offer I had from likely men, And n.o.body ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And G.o.d he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

"TILL AT LAST HE WENT A-COURTIN', AND BROUGHT A WIFE FROM TOWN."

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too far; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.