The Place Where I Was Born

There’s a little old log cabin,
And its walls have fallen down,
Snow has broken down its rafters,
Not one log that’s left is sound.
The brush obscures the doorway,
Everything looks so forlorn,
‘Tis the little old log cabin,
The place where I was born—
Briers o’errun the pathway
Which leads to the crystal spring,
That cradled the tiny brooklet
Where the oriole used to sing.
The hills are fields and pastures
Where I roamed when but a child;
It was all unbroken forest,
And it stretched out far and wild.
The meadows ran in wavelets,
When the wind so wild and free
Blew o’er their level surface
Like a green and billowy sea.
There was childhood’s shout and laughter
Within that cabin small;
But to me it was a palace,
With wide and stately hall.
Our pleasures there were sweeter
Than a rose without a thorn,
In that little old log cabin,—
The place where I was born.
Oh! the little old log cabin!
Where the air was sweet and cool,
Where our school-house was the forest,
And we went to Nature’s school;
Could I but re-trace my footsteps
Over life’s uncertain road,
Could I go back to that cabin,
Lighter far would be my load.