A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white

Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,--

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore

From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere"

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind

I never was naturally vicious;

I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent

I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty