Seemin’ jest to lay in wait,
  Beggin’ you to come an’ skate. 
  An’ you ‘d git your gal an’ go
  Stumpin’ cheerily thro’ the snow,
  Feelin’ pleased an’ skeert an’ warm
  ’Cause she had a-holt yore arm. 
  Why, when Christmas come in, we
  Spent the whole glad day in glee,
  Havin’ fun an’ feastin’ high
  An’ some courtin’ on the sly. 
  Bustin’ in some neighbor’s door
  An’ then suddenly, before
  He could give his voice a lift,
  Yellin’ at him, “Christmas gift.” 
  Now sich things are never heard,
  “Merry Christmas” is the word. 
  But it’s only change o’ name,
  An’ means givin’ jest the same. 
  There ’s too many new-styled ways
  Now about the holidays. 
  I ’d jest like once more to see
  Christmas like it used to be!

LONESOME

  Mother ‘s gone a-visitin’ to spend a month er two,
  An’, oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew
  To other trees to build ag’in; the rooms seem jest so bare
  That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair. 
  The shetters flap more lazy-like ’n what they used to do,
  Sence mother ‘s gone a-visitin’ to spend a month er two.

  We ‘ve killed the fattest chicken an’ we’ve cooked her to a turn;
  We ’ve made the richest gravy, but I jest don’t give a durn
  Fur nothin’ ‘at I drink er eat, er nothin’ ’at I see. 
  The food ain’t got the pleasant taste it used to have to me. 
  They ‘s somep’n’ stickin’ in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue,
  Sence mother’s gone a-visitin’ to spend a month er two.

  The hollyhocks air jest ez pink, they ’re double ones at that,
  An’ I wuz prouder of ’em than a baby of a cat. 
  But now I don’t go near ’em, though they nod an’ blush at me,
  Fur they ‘s somep’n’ seems to gall me in their keerless sort o’ glee
  An’ all their fren’ly noddin’ an’ their blushin’ seems to say: 
  “You ’re purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother ’s gone away.”

  The neighbors ain’t so fren’ly ez it seems they ’d ort to be;
  They seem to be a-lookin’ kinder sideways like at me,
  A-kinder feared they ’d tech me off ez ef I wuz a match,
  An’ all because ’at mother ‘s gone an’ I ‘m a-keepin’ batch! 
  I ‘m shore I don’t do nothin’ worse ’n what I used to do
  ‘Fore mother went a-visitin’ to spend a month er two.

  The sparrers ac’s more fearsome like an’ won’t hop quite so near,
  The cricket’s chirp is sadder, an’ the sky ain’t ha’f so clear;
  When ev’nin’ comes, I set an’ smoke tell my eyes begin to swim,
  An’ things aroun’ commence to look all blurred an’ faint an’ dim. 
  Well, I guess I ’ll have to own up ’at I ‘m feelin’ purty blue
  Sence mother’s gone a-visitin’ to spend a month er two.

GROWIN’ GRAY