Deed Of The Old Home Place

Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen; Halted with tremulous quirk and twist, Staggered, and then went on again.

The wan sun peeped through the wee patched pane

And checkered the floor where the pale beams shone

In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,

With an old man writing there alone.

And the pen wrought on and the head drooped low

And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen, As it traced a verse of the long ago

That his grief had brought to his heart again.

Be kind to thy father for when thou wast young, Who loved thee so fondly as lied He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue.

And joined in thy innocent glee.

Be kind to thy father for now he is old, His locks intermingled with gray;

His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold

Thy father is passing away.

Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow, May traces of sorrow be seen.

Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort her now,

For loving and kind has she been. Remember thy mother, for thee she will pray As long as God giveth her breath With accents of kindness; then cheer her hard way E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”