SONG OF PARTING 90 SONG OF YESTERDAY, THE 82 SPRING SONG AND A LATER, A 137 "THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS" 172 THINKIN' BACK 31 THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 170 TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 145 TO THE JUDGE 177 WE MUST BELIEVE 130 WE MUST GET HOME 19 WHERE-AWAY 57 WHO BIDES HIS TIME 68 WRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 76 RILEY SONGS OF HOME [Illustration] WE MUST GET HOME We must get home! How could we stray like this?-- So far from home, we know not where it is,-- Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place Of children's faces--and the mother's face-- We dimly dream it, till the vision clears Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears. We must get home--for we have been away So long, it seems forever and a day! And O so very homesick we have grown, The laughter of the world is like a moan In our tired hearing, and its song as vain,-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn To find the long-lost pathway, and return!... The child's shout lifted from the questing band Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand, But faces brightening, as if clouds at last Were showering sunshine on us as we passed. We must get home: It hurts so staying here, Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, When most our lack, the least our hope of rest-- When most our need of joy, the more our pain-- We must get home--we must get home again! [Illustration] We must get home--home to the simple things-- The morning-glories twirling up the strings And bugling color, as they blared in blue- And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through; The long grape-arbor, with its under-shade Blue as the green and purple overlaid. We must get home: All is so quiet there: The touch of loving hands on brow and hair-- Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild-- The lost love of the mother and the child Restored in restful lullabies of rain,-- We must get home--we must get home again! The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans The giant sunflower in barbaric pride Guarding the barn-door and the lane outside; The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks, That clamber almost to the martin-box.