An’ your blossoms aren’t half so nice,
Nor your creepin’ vines, nor growin’ grass,
Why! ’cause ours swim in the sun all day,
An’ yours stretch their necks to see him pass.
So you try somehow to pass the time,
A-wanderin’ up, and a-wanderin’ down,
So sick of yourself, but sicker still
Of the folks you meet, in that old town.
Such dressy folks that don’t care a snap,
Not knowin’ you from Adam’s off ox,
An’ by an’ by you lift up your eyes,
An’ see such a clump of hollyhocks,
A-holdin’ their own in some grand place,
With their shiny leaves spread in the sun,
Noddin’ so friendly, seemin’ to say
“Come in old neighbor, an’ share the fun!”
There’s no flower nicer it seems to me,
There’s nothin’ prettier grows nor blows,
Though some folks call them old-fashioned things,
A-thinkin’ them homely I suppose.
But you come across them some fine day
When you’re so homesick you can’t get air
Enough for your lungs down through your throat,
Because of the lump that’s stoppin’ there.
An’ say, I would’nt wonder a bit
In you felt a mist come in your eyes
At sight of the bright familiar things,—
The nicest flowers under the skies.
For they set me thinkin’ of a house,
That stands by itself among the trees,
With a big wide porch, an’ stragglin’ walk
Bordered by jest such flowers as these,
Till you hear the old familiar sounds,
The chirpin’, the buzzin’ soft an’ low,
An’ sniff the breath that comes with the wind
From the ripe, red clover down below.
Till a big warm feelin’ swamps your heart,
You’re not so lonesome, there on their stalks
Are friends a-plenty, smilin’ at you,
The pretty old-fashioned hollyhocks.