It stands within the corner yet,
That quaint, old fashioned churn;
Ah me, those hours I ne'er forget,
When I was called to turn!
That well worn handle oft I seize,
In reveries of old-time,
When life seemed only bread-and-cheese,
And youth, in boyant prime,
Was all a rosy, radiant dream—
Bonny-clapper, here we are!
Buttermilk and cream!

And listening to that music now,
By younger hands evoked,
I seem to hear the lowing cow,
And stalwart steer, unyoked,
Come browsing home at fall of night,
Along the daised lane,
And thrilling with that old delight,
A farmer's boy again
Barefoot and jubilant I seem—
Honey-comb and clover-bloom,
Buttermilk and cream!

I smell, blown through the the open barn,
The fragrant aftermath;
I hear the harsh, tin dinner horn,
That calls men from the swath,
Where, when the sun was zenith high,
The mowers in a row
Swept through the hip-high timothy
With faces all aglow;
And as if churning in a dream
Back to those days to pass I seem—
Bonny-clapper, dipper-dapper
Buttermilk and cream!

Now I am old! my scattered hair
Is white with sorrow's snow,
And dreams of what was bright and fair,
Are only left me now.
Oh, would that I could be once more
That guileless, happy boy!
But ah, my sighs can ne'er restore
That all too-fleeting joy,
When care was strange, and fun supreme,
Strawberry-shortcake,
Buttermilk and cream!

But yet for all, I will not be
A dotard to repine;
Love-light through all my past I see,
As sunlight glows through wine.
Bring me the churn, and let me seem
A glad boy as of old!
Let me renew that youthful dream—
Those vanished years of gold!
Ah me! it sings the old-time theme—
Bonny-clapper, dipper-dapper,
Buttermilk and cream!