James Whitcomb Riley Poems

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on-
...

It is my dream to have you here with me,
Out of the heated city's dust and din--
Here where the colts have room to gambol in,
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When two little boys--renowned but for noise--
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!--
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Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon--
The land that the Lord's love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
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What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'at makes me ketch my breath
And ripples up my backbone tel I'm tickled most to death?--
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Iry an' Billy an' Jo!--
Iry an' Billy's _the boys_,
An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,--
Their pictures took all in a row.
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'When it's _got_ to be,'--like! always say,
As I notice the years whiz past,
And know each day is a yesterday,
When we size it up, at last,--
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Herein are blown from out the South
Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth
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'He is my friend,' I said,--
'Be patient!' Overhead
The skies were drear and dim;
And lo! the thought of him
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Ah, friend of mine, how goes it,
Since you've taken you a mate?--
Your smile, though, plainly shows it
Is a very happy state!
...