Give me the old bush-path again
Which wandered past my Uncle Tim’s,
The dusky dells, the musky smells,
That filtered through the sunset glims;
The goblins crouching ’neath the trees,
The bats and witches by the mill,
The foolish talk of all the leaves;
And let me hear the whip-poor-will
Above the pines, the old new moon
Hung high and dry, up there alone,