They don’t wish Me at Home.
They don’t wish me at home, though they miss me,
’Twould be a great assurance, I fear,
To think for a moment some soft one
Would say, “I wish Toby were here.”
Although the poor tom-cat at the fireside
May think of poor me as I roam,
Oh yes, I’d be green beyond measure
To think they do wish me at home.
Dark nights were my joy for this reason:
Some orchard I’d visit alone;
Next morning some farmer would mention
My name with some fruit that was gone.
But now fruits are safe from all danger,
None’s miss’d since poor Toby’s away;
And the neighbors all wish I may never
Return from the place where I stay.
I forgot not my place at the table,
When “grub-time” was fast drawing nigh;
Then the “vittles” that lay all around me
Disappear’d in the wink of an eye.
Now, when my poor supper is over,
I spread myself out for a snore,
Oh! I dream of the fruits in the garden,
And think myself happy once more.
Oh! I wish I was home, though they quiz me
And jaw me from morning till night;
I’d finger the peach-trees around me—
The farmers should stare with affright.
Although they would give me no welcome,
I’d not be less bold than before;
Their fruit they shall miss by the bushel.
Because I am with them once more.