As I sit by the stove, all polished and nickeled,
Where a carpet of velvet covers the floor,
I reckon I ought to feel wonderfully tickled
While the wind thumps and bangs at the door;
Yes, ought to feel glad—so much to admire,
But it all will not cure a longing desire
A fellow will have for the old hickory fire;
With its curling and snapping,
And its whirling and lapping;
That good old fashioned hickory wood fire.
Their anthracite coal don't have any snap;
No bright burning flame up the flue rolls;
I can't help missing the sweet hickory sap
Frying out of the fore-stick over the coals;
These new fangled fires are all very well,
But one thing I miss, and its easy to tell:
'Tis the good old fashioned hickory wood smell;
That old rustic perfume
Which filled up the room;
That good old fashioned hickory wood smell.
How often we'd sit by that wide open fire,
The wild winds howling and roaring outside;
The bright hickory flames mounting up higher,
Beaming on "linsey-woolsey" close to our side.
Yep, thoughts of it oft' my memory will throng
As I dream how, with apples and cider and song,
We'd while away evenings that never seemed long;
And when the fire burned low,
How it would tell of the snow
In the old winter evenings that never seemed long.
You can take your coal and your natural gas,
Which the tastes of to-day are made to desire;
The bright burnished stove in its nickel and brass,
But give me the old fashioned hickory wood fire;
Where, with apples and walnuts, before it we'd sit,
While father would doze and mother would knit,
And the flames would snap and sparkle and spit;
But the fire burned low
In the long, long ago,
And the ashes of years lie forever on it.
