She should yet count the seasons one by one,
Till the dear old folks were gone, all gone;
Caught up to the Land of the Blessed Fold,
And she more than half a century old!
But O, what a change ’tween then and now!
Memories stamped upon spirit and brow;
The violets gone and the silver thread
Is the chaplet now for the once bright head;
And the cornstalk chair, like the polished gold,
Is vanished away with the dreams of old.