Right Here At Home.

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom,
Where strangers allus joke us when they come,
And brag o’ their old States and interprize—
Yit settle here; and ’fore they realize,
They’re "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!
Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness:
We hear the World’s lots grander— likely so,—
We’ll take the World’s word fer it and not go.—
We know its ways ain’t our ways–so we’ll stay
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.
Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do
Man’s plenty rich enough—and knows it, too,
And’s got a’ extry dollar, any time,
To boost a feller up ’at wants to climb
And ’s got the git-up in him to go in
And git there, like he purt’-nigh allus kin!
Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!—
Where folks’ heart’s bigger ’n their money-pu’s’;
And where a common feller’s jes as good
As ary other in the neighborhood:
The World at large don’t worry you and me
Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!
Right here at home, boys— jes right where we air!—
Birds don’t sing any sweeter anywhere:
Grass don’t grow any greener’n she grows
Acrost the pastur’ where the old path goes,—
All things in ear-shot’s purty, er in sight,
Right here at home, boys, ef we size’em right.
Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place
Is sacerd to us as our mother’s face,
Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled
And kissed us–dyin’ so and rickonciled,
Seein’ us all at home here–none astray–
Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.
James Whitcomb Riley
When Ida Puts Her Armor On
When Ida puts her armor on
And draws her trusty blade
The turnips in the bin turn pale,
The apples are afraid.
The quiet kitchen city wakes
And consternation feels,
And quick the tocsin pealeth forth
In long potato peels.

When Ida puts her armor on
The pots and pans succumb,
A wooden spoon her drum-stick is,
A mixing pan her drum;
She charges on the kitchen folk
With silver, tin and steel
She beat the eggs, she whips the cream,
The victory is a meal.

When Ida puts her apron on
Her breast-plate is of blue.
(Checked gingham ruffled top and sides)
Her gauntlets gingham, too;
And thus protected from assault
Of batter, stain and flour
She wars with vegetable foes
And conquers in an hour.

When Ida puts her armor on
She is so fair to see
Her battle with the kitchen folk
Is reproduced in me;
So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie,
So good her kitchen art
I hardly know which loves her best
My palate or my heart. 

This entry was posted on Friday, September 22nd, 2017 at 10:26 am. Both comments and pings are currently closed.