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Riley Farm-Rhymes

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THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO The orchard lands of Long Ago!O drowsy winds, awake, and blowThe snowy blossoms back to me,And all the buds that used to be!Blow back along the grassy waysOf truant feet, and lift the hazeOf happy summer from the treesThat trail their tresses in the seasOf grain that float and overflowThe orchard lands of Long Ago!Blow back the melody that slipsIn lazy laughter from the lipsThat marvel much if any kissIs sweeter than the apple's is.Blow back the twitter of the birds—The lisp, the titter, and the wordsOf merriment that found the shineOf summer-time a glorious wineThat drenched the leaves that loved it so,In orchard lands of Long Ago!O memory! alight and singWhere rosy-bellied pippins cling,And golden russets glint and gleam,As, in the old Arabian dream,The fruits of that enchanted treeThe glad Aladdin robbed for me!And, drowsy winds, awake and fanMy blood as when it overranA heart ripe as the apples growIn orchard lands of Long Ago!

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's inthe shock,And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin'turkey-cock,And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of thehens,And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peacefulrest,As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feedthe stock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock.They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfereWhen the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall ishere—Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on thetrees,And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of thebees;But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through thehazeOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn daysIs a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock.The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as themorn;The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but stillA-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock!Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keepsIs poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folksis throughWith their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse andsaussage, too!...I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could beAs the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call aroundon ME—I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin'flock—When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,And the sun comes out and STAYS,And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,And you think of yer bare-foot days;When you ORT to work and you want to NOT,And you and yer wife agreesIt's time to spade up the garden-lot,When the green gits back in the treesWell!...