Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems by James Whitcomb Riley
page 68 of 174 (39%)
page 68 of 174 (39%)
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Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, And's got a' extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb And 's got the git-up in him to go in And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin! Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; And where a _common_ feller's jes as good As ary other in the neighborhood: The World at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be! Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right. Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, |
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