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These Flemish pictures of old days; Sit with me by the homestead hearth,...
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Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before. What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
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Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.
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For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these 'It might have been'
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And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on:—...
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