I. WE WROTE and sang of a bush we never Had known in youth in the Western land; Of the dear old homes by the shining river, The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand. The grass waved high on the flat and siding, The wild flowers bloomed on the banks so fair, And younger sons from the North came riding To vine-clad homes in the gardens there. We wrote and sang--and the Lord knows best-- Oh, those dear old songs of the fairy West!
We dreamed and sang of the "bustling mother"; The brick-floored kitchen we saw so clear, The pranks and jokes of the youngest brother, The evening songs of our sisters dear. The old man dozed in the chimney corner, Or smoked and blinked at the cheerful blaze, Or yarned with a crony--old Jack Horner-- Who'd known him back in the Digging Days. We worked and sang--and the Lord knows best-- Oh, those dear old homes of the fairy West!
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