My father, in a day or two, Could land big thieves in jail; There's nothing that he cannot do, He knows no word like "fail." "Our confidence" he would restore, Of that there is no doubt; But if there is a chair to mend We have to send it out. All public questions that arise He settles on the spot; He waits not till the tumult dies, But grabs it while it's hot. In matters of finance he can Tell Congress what to do; But, O, he finds it hard to meet His bills as they fall due. It almost makes him sick to read The things law-makers say; Why, father's just the man they need; He never goes astray. All wars he'd very quickly end, As fast as I can write it; But when a neighbor starts a fuss 'Tis mother has to fight it. In conversation father can Do many wondrous things; He's built upon a wiser plan Than presidents or kings. He knows the ins and outs of each And every deep transaction; We look to him for theories, But look to ma for action. Back Home Glad to get back home again, Where abide the friendly men; Glad to see the same old scenes And the little house that means All the joys the soul has treasured-- Glad to be where smiles aren't measured, Where I've blended with the gladness All the heart has known of sadness, Where some long-familiar steeple Marks my town of friendly people. Though it's fun to go a-straying Where the bands are nightly playing And the throngs of men and women Drain the cup of pleasure brimmin', I am glad when it is over That I've ceased to play the Rover. And when once the train starts chugging Towards the children I'd be hugging, All my thoughts and dreams are set there; Fast enough I cannot get there. Guess I wasn't meant for bright lights, For the blaze of red and white lights, For the throngs that seems to smother In their selfishness, each other; For whenever I've been down there, Tramped the noisy, blatant town there, Always in a week I've started Yearning, hungering, heavy-hearted, For the home town and its spaces Lit by fine and friendly faces. Like to be where men about me Do not look on me to doubt me; Where I know the men and women, Know why tears some eyes are dimmin', Know the good folks an' the bad folks An' the glad folks an' the sad folks; Where we live with one another, Meanin' something to each other. An' I'm glad to see the steeple, Where the crowds aren't merely people. The Dead Return The dead return. I know they do; The glad smile may have passed from view, The ringing voice that cheered us so In that remembered long ago Be stilled, and yet in sweeter ways It speaks to us throughout our days. The kindly father comes again To guide us through the haunts of men, And always near, their sons to greet Are lingering the mothers sweet.