Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,
I am sure, if you understood,
And your bell would toll if I touched it;
You would voice your grief if you could.
You must know, as you stand there waiting,
Rigged out in your misery,
He would come if he could, for he loved you,
You poor little friend, Tennessee.
Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,
And I’m sure you are trying to tell