Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ-
mas, and to-night
I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly
The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd
dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon,
how they'll talk and think of me.
Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas
morn, and if there's one
As comes across from Canada straight
from their absent son,
My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my
Dad'll likely say:
"Don't seem like Christmas time no more,
with our dear lad away."
I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef,
and Brother Jimmy's wife
Will say her never tasted such, no, not in
all her life.
And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt
in your mouth, 'tis true,
But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as
mothers always do!
Ah me! If I could just have wings, and
in the dimsey light
Go stealing up the cobbled path this
lonesome Christmas night,
Lift up the latch with gentle hand -- My!
What a shout there'd be!
From those dear folks down in Devon!
What a welcomin' for me!
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