There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget;
There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet—
Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s,
Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet,
Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner,
And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret.
Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty,
Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they pass
Simple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure.
There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s—