BACK ON THE FARM. 



When the roar of the city comes up from the street, 



There rises a vision ineffably sweet 



Of a scene far away, of a dear, tranquil spot — 



My old childhood home that shall ne'er be forgot. 



It is long, long ago since I bade it good-by, 



With a quivering lip, with a tear in my eye. 



And through all the years that have passed comes the charm 



Of those olden, those golden days back on the farm. 



Do the violets there in the meadow still grow? 



Does the little brook still through its leafy haunts flow? 



Are the fields just as green, are the forests as cool? 



Do the minnows still shimmer and flash in the pool? 



Ah, that dear scene, the fairest I ever looked on, 



I know is unchanged, though some loved ones are gone. 



It has still the old grace, it has still the old charm, 



With the world at its happiest, back on the farm. 



Some day when this struggle, this turmoil, shall cease, 



And, weary, I long for a haven of peace. 



May fate guide my footsteps again to the place 



The mem'ry of which time can never efface. 



Let me pass in its calm the last years of my life, 



Far away from the town with its feverish strife. 



May the old roof-tree shelter me, safe from all harm, 



While I rest, like a tired child, back on the farm. 



— Malcolm Douglas. 



