Ma, evening's long when you and me
Sit down together after early tea,
An' all the boys and girls are gone
Which way and yon from home. And yet, I swan
It's sweet—jest like it used to be
Come forty year ago—don't you agree?
That buzzard northwind from its pinions is a-flingin'
Big whitish feathers down, down—some call it snowin'--
But by the fire we're comf'table and warm
In our snug house on our own farm.
Here's this new radio a-singing'
Like sixty, Ma, and you a-sewin'
Pert as sixteen; the black tomcat's a-purrin'
Content, while yaller canary's churrin'
A bedtime tune to old Fido a-snorin'
In dreams 'bout rats before the oak log roarin'
Up the fireplace flue. . .
But say, I ask you, Mother,
Now is there any—any knowin'
How each would miss the other,
If one of us alone—er--should be goin'
Out where Eternity's great gales is blowin'?