Classic Poem

IT'S mighty good to git back to the old town, shore,
Considerin' I've b'en away twenty year and more.
Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a change,
A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me and strange;
Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers meet,
In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the street —
. . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Saxhorn fellers — say?
I want to hear the old band play.

What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And where's War Barnett at?
And Nate and Bony Meek; Bill Hart; Tom Richa'son and that
Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big as Jim;
And old Hi Kerns, the carpenter — say, what's become o' him?
I make no doubt yer new band now's a competenter band,
And plays their music more by note than what they play by hand,
And stylisher and grander tunes; but somehow — any way,
I want to hear the old band play.

Sich tunes as " John Brown's Body " and " Sweet Alice, " don't you know;
And " The Camels Is A-Comin', " and " John Anderson, My Jo " ;
And a dozent others of 'em — " Number Nine " and " Number 'Leven "
Was favo- rites that fairly made a feller dream o' Heaven.
And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still in bed
I've even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the shed
When " Lilly Dale, " er " Hazel Dell, " had sobbed and died away —
. . . I want to hear the old band play.

Yer new band ma'by beats it, but the old band's what I said —
It allus 'peared to kind o' chord with somepin' in my head;
And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes is jes'
Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws and sort o' says
She won't ner never will fergit, I want to jes' turn in
And take and light right out o' here and git back West ag'in
And stay there, when I git there, where I never haf' to say
I want to hear the old band play.