- It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house
t’ make it home,
- A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye
sometimes have t’ roam
- Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’
behind,
- An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em
allus on yer mind.
- It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’
be,
- How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer
luxury;
- It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of
a king,
- Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round
everything.
- Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or
get up in a minute;
- Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap
o’ livin’ in it;
- Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies
born, and then
- Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ’em up
t’ women good, an’ men;
- And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t
part
- With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into
yer heart:
- The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes
they wore
- Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the
thumb-marks on the door.
- Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it
home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
- An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’
know that Death is nigh;
- An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see
Death’s angel come,
- An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled,
an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
- Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’when yer
tears are dried,
- Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’
sanctified;
- An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant
memories
- O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye
can’t escape from these.
- Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance
fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
- An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by
usin’ ’em each day;
- Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by
year
- Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’
someone dear
- Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’
trained ’em jes t’ run
- The way they do, so’s they would get the early
mornin’ sun;
- Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone
from cellar up t’ dome:
- It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’
make it home.
