Classic Poem

Goin', goin', goin'—gone! Mother, dear, don't cry;
Th' old home's passed t' other hands, but mebbe, by an' by,
We may save an' buy another, though no place'll ever be
As dear as this one that we've lost has been t' you an' me.
Goin', goin', goin'—gone! Mother, come away;
Th' ol' farm's been knocked down an' sold—it does no good t' stay;
We've tried our best t' save it, but it wasn't ordered so.
It ain't our home no longer—Mother, dear, le's go!

I don't know as I ever see th' ol' farm look so fine.
Never see a deeper green on every shrub an' vine;
Clover blossoms never smelled so fresh an' sweet, somehow,
Lilacs never grew so thick, it seems, as th' do now.
The ol' white house with its green blinds, the woodbine creepin' on,
'Twon't do no harm, I guess, t' take a las' look 'fore we're gone.
Tried our best t' pay th' debt, we did, th' Lord mus' know,
But somehow couldn't make it quite—Mother, dear, le's go.

Goin', goin', goin'—gone! I seem t' hear it yet;
Seem t' hear the auctioneer—my eyes somehow get wet;
Gone t' pay th' mor'gagee, an' we are crowded out.
Gone! So many things are gone that folks don't think about.
Every blade o' grass an' tree, every foot o' ground
Has some hauntin' memory, some sweetness clingin' 'round,
Some memory for you an' me, that other folks don't know;
It seems somehow the're speakin' now—Mother, dear, le's go.

Goin', gone! We couldn't save it, Mother, dear; we tried,
But everything went criss-cross—th' cows took sick an' died,
We had to sell th' horses—th' farmin' didn't pay,
An' troubles sort o' double-quicked—sometimes the' come that way.
Goin', gone! The pasture lands; th' dairy house beside
Th' brook; the first house that we built, where Sue and Johnny died.
T' other folks it's simply losin' of a bit o' land,
But the's a loss t' you an' me that they can't understand.

Goin', goin', goin'—gone! I wonder what's th' use
Twinin' heartstrings 'round an' 'round jes' t' tear 'em loose.
Goin', gone! Th 'way o' life; why, th' good Lord knows;
Buildin' up for years an' years, an' then away she goes!
Hopes or homes, it's jes' th' same—what we build about,
Other hands mus' reap th' fruits an' we are crowded out;
Story always jes' th' same, fr'm th' light o' dawn
T' th' twilight's mist an' shade—hopes goin', goin', gone.