The Old Farm
Just now when the whitening blossoms flare.
On the apple trees, and the growing grass
Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;
With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass
Of the old farm I am dreaming,
And softly smiling, seeming
To see the bright sun beaming
Upon the old home farm.
And when I think how we milked the cows,
And hauled the hay from the meadows low,
And walked the furrows behind the plows,
And chapped the cotton to make it grow,
I’d much rather be here dreaming,
And, smiling, only seeming
To see that hot sun beaming
Upon the old home farm.