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The Old Mountain Home
The old mountain home, encroaching forest reclaimed,
It’s falling down all alone, there’s nobody to be blamed.
Once it was warmed, with a hearth and the fire,
Where children swarmed, with youth’s desire;
By a Mama’s love, and all the ties that bind,
While high above, loomed the ridge’s spine.
Over there in the yard, is where the garden was tended.
Yes, the chores were hard, it was a home daily mended.
Behind the house are two posts, where a line was strung.
It looked like a troop of ghosts, when the sheets were hung.
On the old fence of split-rail, there was a gate that latched,
It opened the way to the well, where the water was fetched.
Out yonder in the field, full with purpled clover,
Is where the kids squealed, at playing Red Rover.
The old spring-house there, is where food was stored;
For vittles cooked with care, and thanks to the Lord.
The old porch, now laid low, once echoed the ringing,
Of the fiddle, and banjo, with Papaw’s sweet singing.
In these mountains wild, memories of life’s simple thrills,
Are the remembrances of a child, raised-up in these hills.
