RILEY
SONGS OF HOME
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
WITH PICTURES BY
WILL VAWTER
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
1910
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
TO
GEORGE A. CARR
CONTENTS
56
126
160
155
123
104
113
61
52
50
132
189
38
125
94
115
107
100
117
165
26
138
81
46
184
29
70
36
135
161
64
182
92
63
112
98
43
44
141
143
75
90
82
137
172
31
170
145
177
130
19
57
68
76
RILEY SONGS OF HOME
WE MUST GET HOME
JUST TO BE GOOD
This is
enough—enough!
Ah! though we miss
All else but this,
To be good is
enough!
Enough—just to be
good!
Ah! though we miss
All else but this,
To be good is
enough!
MY FRIEND
THINKIN' BACK
age
feelin'
young
Aprile first
Ooh! my-oh!
a-thinkin'
him
NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE
Though we wear a fair face and
are gay,
And the world we
deceive
May not ever believe
We could laugh in a happier
way.—
Ofttimes, with our faces
aglow,
There's an ache and a
moan
That we know of
alone,
For the heart, in a tempest of
pain,
May live in the
guise
Of a smile in the
eyes
As a rainbow may live in the
rain;
May hang out a radiant
star
Whose light in the
sky
Of despair is a lie
But the conscience is quick to
record,
All the sorrow and
sin
We are hiding within
Is plain in the sight of the
Lord:
And evasion shall cease to
defile
The sacred recess
Of the soul, we
confess
HIS ROOM
I'm home again, and happy,
too,
I find myself alone with
you:
Though brief my stay, nor far
away,
I missed you—missed you
night and day—
As wildly yearned for you as
now.—
Old Room, how are you,
anyhow?
Awaits me just within the
door;
Have never seemed so bright
before,—
The old rosettes and
mignonettes
And ivy-leaves and
violets,
Look up as pure and fresh of
hue
As though baptized in morning
dew.
Fold round me like the arms of
love,
A blessing pure as from
above—
Even as a nestling child
caressed
And lulled upon a loving
breast,
With folded eyes, too glad to
weep
And yet too sad for dreams or
sleep.
So patient in your tender
care,
Has blossomed for you
unaware;
And who but you had cared to
woo
A heart so dark, and heavy,
too,
As in the past you lifted
mine
From out the shadow to the
shine?
When first you gladly welcomed
me
Than rioting
incessantly:
And thus the din that stormed
within
The old guitar and
violin
Has fallen in a fainter
tone
And sweeter, for your sake
alone.
In festal halls a favored
guest,
My worthy work and worthy
rest—
By this I know that long
ago
You loved me first, and told me
so
In art's mute eloquence of
speech
The voice of praise may never
reach.
Confuse the faces of my
friends,
I find unraveling at the
ends;
But as I turn to you, and
learn
To meet my griefs with less
concern,
Your love seems all I have to
keep
Me smiling lest I needs must
weep.
Forget the world and all its
woes;
Old Room, and lull me to
repose:
And as we glide adown the
tide
Of dreams, forever side by
side,
I'll hold your hands as lovers
do
Their sweethearts' and talk
love to you."
THE PLAINT HUMAN
Seasons of loss and
gain!—
Why do we still
complain?
O my intolerant
brother—
And much too much of the
other.
THE QUEST
my
THE MULBERRY TREE
FOR YOU
Delirium of
merriment,
In endless silence of
content.
I could forget, for your dear
sake,
The utter emptiness and
ache
Of every loss I ever
knew.—
What could I not forget for
you?
Of mine own sins, and so
erase
And all that mars or masks my
face.
For your fair sake I could
forget
The bonds of life that chafe
and fret,
Nor care if death were false or
true.—
What could I not forget for
you?
One thing, I know, would still
abide
Though all of love were lost
beside—
I yet would feel how first the
wine
Of your sweet lips made fools
of mine
Until they sung, all drunken
through—
"What could I not forget for
you?"
A FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS-AIR
feel
When the Chris'mas-times sets
in.
As ever I've run
ag'in!—
And gineral health, I
swear
goneness
A kind o' feel in the
air.
To the spot where a man
lives at!—
They ain't no doubt about
that!—
somepin
That follers me, here and
there,
A kind o' feel in the
air!
feel
As blame-don sad as
sweet!—
And am spryest on my
feet,
ache
That I can't lo-cate
no-where;—
Chris'mas
A kind o' feel in the
air.
W'y, no!—God bless
'em!—no!—
Like my own wuz, long
ago?—
O' the little toy-drum and
blare
No! no!
The sad-sweet feel in the
air.
AS CREATED
Every heart of man or
woman,—
Or however brimmed with
gall,
After all.
WHERE-AWAY
DREAMER, SAY
A wild sweet dream of a foreign
land,
With lips of coral and silver
sand;
Or lave themselves in the
tearful mist
O'er crags of opal and
amethyst?
Of tropic shades in the lands
of shine,
That flows like a rill of
wasted wine,—
Parry the shafts of the Indian
sun
The reeds below where the
waters run?
That lives in a land of sweet
perfume,
In molten spatters of bud and
bloom?
And never a sob in the balmy
air,
Breaks the sleep of the silence
there?
OUR OWN
We gossip,
knee-by-knee;
Of all their joys to
be,—
All desolate we cry
Good-by! Good-by!
Good-by!
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED
WHO BIDES HIS TIME
Faces defeat full
patiently,
However poor his fortunes
be,—
Of poverty—the paltry
clime
Who bides his time.
Of honey in the saltest
tear;
Joy runs to meet him, drawing
near;
And, like a never-ending
rhyme,
Who bides his time.
In the hot race that none
achieves,
With crimson berries in the
leaves;
And sway his hand o'er every
clime,
Who bides his time.
NATURAL PERVERSITIES
In scientific doubt
To puzzle us
about,—
Of wise elucidation,
From simple
observation.
little
I never missed a
train
run
I never knew it rain
Or, when in my
possession,
A jocular
expression.
To dun me for a debt
I never knew one
yet,
To make the least
invasion,—
Have courted no
occasion.
What Nature has in
view
To trust we oughtn't
to.—
Disastrously
exploded
We didn't think was
loaded.
And what is worse by
half,
And never raise a
laugh:
And sparkling jests and
liquor,
To melt in tears the
quicker.
The right; in like
effect,
Do most when we
neglect.—
As wild and quick as
tinder,
The more we seem to
hinder.
And, on the selfsame
plan,
Was quite a little
man:
We prove a thing, then doubt
it,—
everything
Know anything about
it.
A SCRAWL
I try and I try, but the rhymes
are dull
Limp and unlovable.
They will not walk as I want
them to,
Of my telling my love for
you.
Knowing I love you as sun the
sod
That swings in the smile of
God.
WRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS
The way you write a
letter
last
first
And ever' next-un's
better!—
You make so
interestin',
Can't tell which is the
best-un.
'Pears-like I almost
hear ye
And hitch my cheer up near
ye
Acrosst the whole
per-rairies
And country couples
marries.
To talk jes like we're
thinkin',
And giggle-un and
winkin',
Like some is allus
doin',—
Is
turned
Er shore-enough a
new-un!"—
'A leetle
kindo'-sorto'"—
Jes 'cause he hadn't ort
to?"
dad-libitum
Tel all of us feels,
someway,
When we git up to come
'way!
old
Jes 'cause you're so
abidin'.—
fer keeps
My principul
residin'
Me allus thinkin' of
'em,
To tell 'em how I love
'em.—
I wouldn't live without
'em,
But what I dreamp' about
'em,—
We'd all love
one-another
And Madaline and
Mother.
LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES
THE SONG OF YESTERDAY
SONG OF PARTING
Shatter every vow!
Will be welcome now!
And if this fair hand I
touch
I have worshipped
overmuch,
It was my mistake—and
so,
Say farewell, and let me
go.
Murmur no regret,
Do not waste them
yet!
They might pour as pours the
rain,
And not wash away the
pain:
I have tried them and I
know.—
Say farewell, and let me
go.
Think me not
untrue—
I am true to you!
If the ghost of love may
stay
Where my fond heart dies
to-day,
I am with you
alway—so,
Say farewell, and let me
go.
OUR KIND OF A MAN
"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?"
I've heard my gran'pap
say
Jes them words
thataway!
To ever heave in
sight
"How did you rest, last
night?"
At breakfast, on the
sly,
And eyebrows belt so
high
How did you rest, last night?
We'd mumble and let
on
Was dim, and hearin'
gone.
All I'm a-wantin' is
And sweet a sleep as
his!
To wake, and with its
light
his
"How did you rest, last
night?"
OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE
JACK-IN-THE-BOX
(Grandfather, musing.)
You bring such curious things
to me!—
THE BOYS
As when we raced
over
Pink pastures of
clover,
Forever adrift down the years
that are flown?
Where over the
meadow,
In sunshine and
shadow,
The whippoorwill's call has a
sorrowful tone,
I want the glad
luster
Of youth, and the
cluster
IT'S GOT TO BE
got
As I notice the years whiz
past,
When we size it up, at
last,—
boyhood
And I knowed we had to
quit,—
got
goin'
So I said "Good-by" to
it.
got
goin'
So at least I always
try
"Well, it's got to be.
Good-by!"
When it's got to be, it
melts!
Ef I can't keep nothin'
else!
That I'd soon be
twenty-two,—
And I said, "Good-by to
you!"
got
goin'
So at least I always
try
"Well, it's got to
be.—Good-by!"
Yet still I smiled and
smiled,—
And I now had a wife and
child:
Till, last, on her bed of
pain,
And I said "Good-by"
again.
got
goin'
So at least I always
try
"Well, it's got to be.
Good-by!"
Almost a man in
size,—
With his mother's smilin'
eyes.—
And followed me. And
I
I found him, and then, ...
"Good-by."
got
goin'
So at least I always
try
"Well, it's got to be.
Good-by!"
With my very best good
will,
Am a cheerful old man
still:
got
goin'
And this is the thing I'll
do,—
And say "Good-by" to
you!...
got
When his old scythe circles high,
As I say "Good-by!—Good-by!"
"OUT OF REACH?"
Nay, by my own dead, I
deny
'Tis not so far to
die.
And outheld hands and welcoming
speech,
This side of
"out-of-reach."
"A BRAVE REFRAIN"
And the knuckled twigs are
gloved with frost;
And the old pathway to the barn
is lost;
And the stamp of the stabled
horse is vain,
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
And the tallow gleams in frozen
streaks;
And the pump sounds hoarse and
the handle squeaks;
And the frost is scratched from
the window-pane
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
And hob-nailed shoes on the
hearth below,
And the eight-day clock ticks
loud and slow;
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and
the drowsy brain
O then is the time for a brave
refrain!
ENVOI
IN THE EVENING
When the first far stars
above
Than the dewy eyes of
love,
To the vanished morns and
Mays
In the evening of our
days?
Till the twain are thrilled as
now,
Shall my kiss upon your
brow
And, in all forgetful
ways,
In the evening of our
days?
Shall enfold us
velvetwise,
Of the gladness of your
eyes:
Mingles with the darkening
maze,
In the evening of our
days.
JIM
jour.,
Consumpted-lookin'—but
la!
laughin'est,
jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
enough in his talk,
And his feelin's,
too!
a-carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
dirt,
A better feller'n
Jim!
You could git it o'
him!
guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's
worth—
was his,
He'd a-give you the
earth!
Pore feller onto his
feet—
So's the feller got
somepin' to eat!
he
dressed,
He ust to say to
me,—
winter-time, a-huntin' a
job,
And he'll git along!" says
he.
much
O' this world's goods at a
time.—
and haf to, more'n
like,
Turn round and borry a
dime!
then jerk his coat.
And kindo' square his
chin,
shoe-bench,
And go to peggin'
ag'in!
natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to
death!
whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his
breath—
You fellers
"Is a-pilin' onto me
ghost o' mine to
pack
Through all
Eternity!"
'At ortn't a-never
a-died!
said—
"On'y to Jim!" and
cried:
shop—
Er the whole blame
neighborhood,—
anything else that
day
But jes set around and feel
good!"
THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH
you
HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB
Upon the dead sea of the
Past!—A view—
A far-off "Ooh!
ooh-ooh!"
In some wood's-pasture of the
Long Ago—
Of rest we used to
know.
A wilted apple that the worm
had spurned.—
Of good old days
returned.—
Tinkles a tune so tender and
complete,
So bitter, yet so
sweet!
AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY
As my uncle ust to
say,—
W'y, they ain't no use to
pray!
tears
sweat
As my uncle ust to
say.
As my uncle ust to
say,
Ner whistle their lives
away!
As my uncle ust to
say.
As my uncle ust to
say,
And our round-up, night and
day:
His
As my uncle ust to
say.
WE MUST BELIEVE
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief.
And wind and bind them as one
harvest-sheaf
forever
Lord, I believe:
Help Thou mine
unbelief.
have
promise
The eyes uplifting from all
deeps of grief,
Lord, I believe:
Help Thou mine
unbelief.
And lead each as Thine Own
Child—even the Chief
Lord, I believe:
Help Thou mine
unbelief.
A GOOD MAN
In worthy deed and
prayer
If smiles or tears be
there:
Lives for the world he
tries
A good man never
dies.
His share of toil and
stress,
Makes every burden
less,—
Lie fallen—hands and
eyes
A good man never
dies.
THE OLD DAYS
The overdear and
fair!—
How lovely they
were!
With the dew-drench on the
flowers
Of those old days of
ours.
real
Spendthrift Summer
flung;
real
Bird or Poet sung!
Only honest
praise—
In the old days.
The first and the
best;
Close where they
rest:
Would we were
there!...
How lovely they
were!
A SPRING SONG AND A LATER
Wherein once more I
heard
The orchard's earliest
bird—
New-clad in leaf and
bloom,
In dewy gleam and
gloom.
Of heart and spirit
fell
Still
irresistible,—
To mate her bright
refrain.
As dim as Autumn
rain.
KNEELING WITH HERRICK
Give me
content—
Whate'er it be:
And simple hoard;
The chimney wide,
And twine about
And household worth:
The rafters low;
As fingers might
The children croon:
Thou boldest true,
My comfort
there,—
That makes each seat
Loved as the rest.
THE RAINY MORNING
And the lowering clouds
o'erhead
Where the sweet sunshine lay
dead;
Like an endless sigh of
pain,
And writhed in the falling
rain.
To chord my harp with the
sun,
And the task was a weary
one:
And sick of a
discontent,
And mourned with the
instrument.
Of the sun bent over
me,
As a father's hand might
be:
My clouded soul grew
bright,
Melted in mists of
light.
REACH YOUR HAND TO ME
With its heartiest
caress—
To its present
faithfulness—
Sometime I may ask in
vain
For the touch of it
again,
When between us land or
sea
Holds it ever back from
me.
Groping somewhere in the
night,
Just a touch, however
light,
Would make all the darkness
day,
And along some sunny
way
Lead me through an
April-shower
Of my tears to this fair
hour.
To go on forever
thus!
Who can say what waits for
us?—
Meeting—greeting, night
and day,
Faring each the selfsame
way—
Still somewhere the path must
end.—
Reach your hand to me, my
friend!
TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAM
dim
A BACKWARD LOOK
And lazily leaning back in my
chair,
From weariness, toil and
care,—
Left ajar the gates of my
mind,—
Slipped out in street of "Auld
Lang Syne."
Through scenes of silence, and
jubilee
As far as the eye could
see;
The same old dreams of our
boyhood's days
Of walking asleep in the
world's strange ways.
And there was the selfsame
clock that ticked
And helped when the apples were
picked.
With the gilded collar and
yellow eyes,
Sound asleep with the dear
surprise.
Where the grass was worn from
the trampled ground
Doin' "sky-scrapers," or
"whirlin' round:"
And again "had shows" in the
buggy-shed
The old ghosts romp through the
best days dead!
With a wistful look of a long
June day,
He had such a "partial"
way,
Of a probable likelihood to
be
Catching a note from
me.
Where the big, white, hollow,
old sycamore grows,—
On the fellow that tied the
clothes.—
That it seems to me now that
then
Than it ever will have
again.
AT SEA
But Hope remains
behind,
And Peace, of passive
mind;
With lifted sails of
prayer,
Nor find it
anywhere.
Yet keepest from our
eyes
In calms of
Paradise,
With all the driving
rain
And waft us home
again.
THE OLD GUITAR
And moldering into
decay;
That the dull dust hides
away,
In its silent lips
to-day.
The sinews of brave old
airs
So closely here
declares
And the faded hue it
wears.
Has cherished a smile for
me;
That comes with a
memory
And a moonlit
balcony.
Or the minstrel's powers
invent,
Of the fairy hands that
lent
On the dear old
instrument.
Still blooms; and the tiny
sets
In the keys, and the silver
frets;
Alas for the heart's
regrets!—
And the wounds of rift and
scar
Enthralled with a stronger
bar
Like that of the old
guitar!
JOHN McKEEN
His loosened collar, and
swarthy throat;
And the wealth of a workman's
vote!
And tilt him back in his
Windsor chair
And the crickets
everywhere!
With a watery jingle of pans
and spoons,
And old-time
fiddle-tunes!
And fill the hearing with
childish glee
Old book of the
Used-to-be!
To have grown ambitious in
worldly ways!—
Out on election
days!
To yield you the office you
still maintain?
To the hunger of heart and
brain?
Edging the drives where your
blooded span
And the mirth, and the happy
man?
Your faded wife is a close
recluse;
And marry as you shall
choose!—
With the watery jingle of pans
and spoons,
And the old-time
fiddle-tunes!
THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND
Little Boy! Little Boy!
where?
A-wandering 'way in
there;—in there—
A-wandering 'way in
there!
Little Boy, 'way in
there?
And mermaids, smiling
out—'way in where
They're a-hiding—'way in
there!
Little Boy! Little Boy!
where?
And the Wee Folk—'way in
there—in there—
And the Kelpies—'way in
there!
Little Boy! Little Boy!
what?
And tell her everything I've
forgot
About, a-wandering 'way in
there—
Through the blind-world 'way in
there!
"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS"
"Chris'mus comes but onc't a
year!"
In his old split-bottomed
cheer
And Eldory home fer
two
Old folks tickled through and
through,
we
Ser'ous in his "daily
walk,"
Was no hand to joke er
talk.
flinched
Hurt his wownd in winter.
But
Mother
Watched his feet, and made him putt
Pap 'u'd say, and snap his eyes
...
Round the hearth, and me and
'Lize
Jest a-heppin' Pap: She'd
fill
O' hard cider; er set
still
"Boys," he'd say, "and you
girls, too,
So, as you've a right to
do,
Celebrate
Them old cheery words, you
know.
All of us—then had to
go
"Chris'mus comes but onc't a
year!"
"Chris'mus comes but onc't a
year!"
Allus
There
TO THE JUDGE
A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township
Can't you arrange to come
down
Out of the dust of the
town?
And put by your dolorous
frown
Can't you arrange to come
down?
The arguments prosy and
drear,—
In the lap of the greenery
here?
And "husk" yourself out of your
gown
Can't you arrange to come
down?
And bah! for its technical
lore!
But wish himself low as
before!
Poke your bald head through a
crown
Can't you arrange to come
down?
here
The birds are in session by
dawn;
complaints
And a breath that your betters
have drawn;
To a jury of kine, white and
brown,
Can't you arrange to come
down?
Pigeonhole Blackstone and
Kent!—
Twain, Burdette, Nye, and
content!
And put by your dolorous
frown
Can't you arrange to come
down?
OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS
fleur-de-lis
MY DANCIN'-DAYS IS OVER
Kindo' like that sweet-sick
feelin', in the long sweep of a swing,
The first you ever swung in,
with yer first sweet-heart, i jing!—
Yer first picnic—yer
first ice-cream—yer first o' ever'thing
'At happened 'fore yer
dancin'-days wuz over!
A-fiddlin' old "Gray
Eagle"—And-sir! I jes stopped my load
O' hay and listened at
him—yes, and watched the way he
"bow'd,"—
And back I went, plum forty
year', with boys and girls I knowed
And loved, long 'fore my
dancin'-days wuz over!—
A-marchin'—and
fire-ingines.—All the noise, the whole street
through,
Wuz lost on me!—I only
heerd a whipperwill er two,
It 'peared-like, kindo' callin'
'crost the darkness and the dew,
Them nights afore my
dancin'-days wuz over.
With old Lew Church from Sugar
Crick, with that old fiddle he
Had sawed clean through the
Army, from Atlanty to the sea—
And yit he'd fetched, her home
ag'in, so's he could play fer me
One't more afore my
dancin'-days wuz over!
And all the girls 'at
then wuz girls—I saw 'em, one and all,
As plain as
then—the middle-sized, the short-and-fat, and
tall—
And, 'peared-like, I danced
"Tucker" fer 'em up and down the wall
Jes like afore my dancin' days
wuz over!
po
you
all
But, jes the same,—in
spite of all 'at you call "interprise
And prog-gress of
you-folks Today," we're all of fambly-ties—
We're all got feelin's fittin'
fer the tears 'at's in our eyes
Er the smiles afore our
dancin'-days is over.
HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS
