An' the little black people each climbed up a steeple, An' sat lookin' up at the sky; They came fer t' see what a weddin' might be an' they furnished the cake an' the pie. OLD HOME, GOOD-BYE! The day is passing; I have tarried long; My way leads far through paths I fear to try; But as I go I'll cheer my heart with song-- Old home, good-bye! In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage! The babe, the maiden leaving home to wed; The young man going forth by duty led And faltering age. And some, returning from far distant lands, Fainting and sick their ways to thee have wended To feel the sweet ministry of loving hands, Their journeys ended. Thou hadst a soul--thy goodly prop' and stay That kept the log, the compass and the chart, And showed the way for many a trusting heart-- The long, long way! O humble home! thou hadst a secret door Through which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye On splendors that no palace ever wore In days gone by. From narrow walls thy lamp gave glad release And shone afar on distant lands and powers; A sweet voice sang of love and heavenly peace And made them ours. Thou hadst a magic window, broad and high-- The light and glory of the morning shone Through it, however dark the day had grown Or bleak the sky. Its panes, like mighty lenses, brought to view A fairer home; I saw in depths above The timber of the old home in the new-- The oak of love. THE RUSTIC DANCE To Jones's tavern, near the ancient woods, Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods. Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn-- Its tone less fit for melody than scorn. Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last, A century's caravan of song has passed. The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun, With noisy kisses punctuate the fun. Some youths look on, too bashful to assist And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed. The fiddler comes--his heart a merry store, And shouts of welcome greet him at the door. Unlettered man--how rude the jest he flings! But mark his power to wake the tuneful strings! The old folks smile and tell how, long ago, Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow; And how the God-sent magic of his art To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart, And shook the bonds of care from aged men Who 'neath the spell returned to youth again. He taps the fiddle-back as 'twere a drum; The raw recruits in Cupid's army come; And heeding not the praise his playing wins, The ebullition of his soul begins. The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound, Pursues the measure like a baying hound. The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain,