DEED OF THE OLD HOME PLACE
Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist
Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;
Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,
Staggered, and then went on again.
The wan sun peeped through the wee patched
pane
And checkered the floor where the pale
beams shone
In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,
With an old man writing there alone.
And the pen wrought on and the head drooped
low
And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen,
As it traced a verse of the long ago
That his grief had brought to his heart
again.
Be kind to thy father for when thou wast
young,
Who loved thee so fondly as lied
He caught the first accents that fell from
thy tongue.
And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with gray;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and
bold
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen.
Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort
her now,
For loving and kind has she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee she will
pray
As long as God giveth her breath
With accents of kindness; then cheer her
hard way
E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”