Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for
me I
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the
rotting sea.
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the
ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
of stars.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of
royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave
beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of
a friendly dignity.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New
England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-
ing over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-
fashioned flowers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and