And the hand that gives him welcome may be
calloused, may be brown,
But the fervor of its greeting can’t be matched
back there in town.
’Tis a plain old dad in drillin’ who will clasp
his hand; and then
He will shout, “Lord, ain’t we tickled! God
bless ye, how’ve ye be’n?
Why, massy me, ye rascal, how like fury ye
have growed!