George Burnett Devine

There used to be a farmer Known as a stingy man; He toiled and saved his money — And then the fun began.

He bought a swarm of honey bees, And took them to the farm; They toiled throughout the summer, They didn't do no harm.

They stored a lot of honey In the sunny golden hours; While they rested in the evening, 'Neath the brightly shining stars.

But the farmer didn't like it When they quit at close of day; He thought that they were stalling; You see, no work no pay.

So he caught a bunch of fireflies, To supply the bees with light; And he put them in the beehives So the bees could work at night.

Sometimes when I am dreaming, My thoughts drift to and fro; O'er the distant fields of Flanders Where the crimson poppies blow.

Again I trudge the highways In the dusk of eventide; 'Neath a sky of rose and purple, With my dream pals by my side.

The boys are softly singing, As they trudge the trail with me : "Oh, the old gray mare, she Ain't what she used to be!"

I see the storm clouds gather, The last dim shadows go; And the faces, oh, the faces, In the star-shell's afterglow.

And my soul is sorely shaken And I long for sweet relief; From the spectre scenes of sorrow And the sounds of death and grief.

For these dreams recall my comrades Whose hearts in death are stilled; And the trenches, oh, the trenches, With their human harvest fill'd.

While the world, unheeding, thoughtless, Wonders at the waywardness Of the boys who wore the khaki, And their discontented restlessness.

It seems to me but yesterday That I was a lad, and you Were just a little girlie With eyes of baby blue.

I wore a suit of corduroy And you a crimson gown; Your hair resembled ripened wheat And mine was curly brown.

We dreamed the dreams of childhood, While playing on the green; And often planned that we would wed When you were sweet sixteen.

And other dreams of childhood Never have come true; And though my hair is turning gray I often think of you.

For though your soul's departed You live still in memory; To gladden hearts that still survive, My sweetheart, Sweet Marie.

When I take the long count, buddy, And I hit the good old hay, Don't ask the boss to leave you off And lose a half a day! Just drop around the night before, When the lights are burning low, And shake hands with the neighbors Who are busted up with woe.

Don't spend a lot of money In buying me some blooms, Just laugh and kid around the joint, Help chase away the glooms; Spend your jack on extra chow And have some fun awhile, To know that you were happy! That would make me smile.

Don't get a heavy tombstone And place it on my chest, I'll be pushing up the daisies And a-needin' lots of rest! A little cross of wood will do And never mind the paint, Paint will often fade you know, And look like what it ain't.

And after you have placed the cross, Pack the ground real hard, That will hold it steady; Then tack on this little card: "He never did amount to much But didn't moan or sigh; And so we place this little cross Upon a reg'lar guy."

While sitting at the table, pal, When you was just a kid, Remember how your pop would say: "You can't cook like mother did!"

My gosh! We'd nearly drop our knife! What the heck's got into pop? Why, these here eats are simply great, From steaming spuds to juicy chop.

You'd listen with your mouth ajar As Pop would tell the tale, Of how his mother used to cook The tender chicken, goose and quail.

You'd turn your eyes upon your Mom, Whose eats you always did adore; She never seemed to be impressed, She'd often heard that tale before.

"Yes, children, from what your father says, Your grandma must have been a wow, In working with the pots and pans In fixin' up the fam'ly chow.

"Oh yes, he liked your grandma's eats When he was just a kid; He also heard your grandpa say: 'You can't cook like my mother did!' "

There's a most perplexin' question 'Causin' boys so much dismay, Just what becomes of everything Their Ma's have put away.

Remember gang, when we was kids, We couldn't find a thing? And how our marbles disappeared, As well as top and string?

Our ketchin' glove was missin' And so was ball and bat; The fish hooks simply wasn't there, Nor was our cowboy hat.

"Hey, Ma!" we'd holler, "Where's my knife? I had it only yesterday!" And Ma would say she didn't know, She'd put the thing away.

That's the way it always was, Mornin', noon, an' night; You couldn't keep a doggoned thing, It just skipped out of sight.

We'd rummage 'round about the house, And raise an awful howl; But all that Ma could ever find Was just the soap an' towel.

And though we've grown to man's estate, It's still the same today; A blood-hound couldn't find his nose When Ma puts things away.

When your thoughts turn gently backwards To them days of long ago, Don't forget them good old lickin's When our Ma's would mix the dough.

We were only little puppies And be snoozin' in the hay; And we'd get a sniff of cookin' "Oh, boy! It's bakin' day!"

We'd do a bit o' grumblin' While totin' in the coal; But we wasn't sayin' nothin' When we'd get the mixin' bowl.

It might be lemon custard, Or maybe choc'lit cake; But them surely were the lickin's Our Ma's knowed how to make.

I've et some fancy groceries, Since I was just a kid; But they didn't taste as tasty As them good old lickin's did.

When I was just a little boy An' Ma would tan my hide; I'd get my little doggie And to it I would confide.

"We'll get up in the morning And hit it for the West; I'm sick an' tired of everything, We'll give this burg a rest.

"We'll build a little cabin Clost to a swimmin' pool; There won't be any wash rags, And there won't be any school.

"There won't be any errands, And there won't be any girls, To tattle on a feller An' git sand in their curls.

"I'll smoke my pipe, you bet you, An' you can have the fleas; We'll hunt for bear an' possum, And we'll fight the bumble bees.

"We can waller 'round the river For days and months and years; An' no one 'round to holler 'Go wash your neck and ears!'

"We'll find a great big fortune And buy some choo-choo cars; An' you can have a collar, An' I'll smoke big black cigars."

And so on, and so on, and so on, Life will be just fine; For a faithful little doggie And a little boy of nine.