O, give me back the good old days
When all the world was mine;
My palace home, the rude log hut,
Half hidden 'neath the pine.
O let me scent the woodbine sweet
That clustered 'round the eaves,
And, dropping, hid the moss-grown logs
Beneath its thousand leaves.
How gladly would I turn my back
Upon the setting sun,
To view those well-remembered joys
Of all the years agone.
I fain would trace my journey back
To greet the rising morn,
E'en from the rude, old cottage,
Now empty and forlorn.
What are the joys of hoarded wealth?
Vain, transitory, vain—
O give me back the golden age
Of boyhood's time again!
The wondrous forest and the fields
Where I was wont to be,
And let the summer flowers bud
And bloom again for me.
The dear ones long departed,
O bring them back once more,
And let me hear my mother's song
Sound from the cottage door.
And let my sister come again
To play beneath the pine—
O give me back the good old days
When all the world was mine!
