(I hear his step far down the street.)
Two purl -- two plain. The sock can
wait;
I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!)





The Dear Folks in
Devon

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ-
mas, and to-night
I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly
berries bright.
The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd
dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon,
how they'll talk and think of me.

Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas
morn, and if there's one
As comes across from Canada straight
from their absent son,
My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my
Dad'll likely say:
"Don't seem like Christmas time no more,
with our dear lad away."