An' I listen to the carols that with gentle voices roll,
Full o' tenderness an' beauty, down upon my weary soul,
Fer thar's one thet keeps a-singin' with a song thet's never done,
An' I see the bendin' willers on the banks o' Turkey Run.
An' agin' I be a youngster with a youngster's foolin' dreams,
With his high-falutin' notions an' his fiddle-faddle schemes;
With the laughin' an' the cryin', with the sorrow an' the joy,
Thet is jumbled up together in the bosom o' the boy;
An' agin my arly fancies in a fairy loom are spun
Underneath the dancin' shadders on the banks o' Turkey Run.