Over the Hill from the Poor-House

I, who was always counted, they say,Rather a bad stick any way,Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"I, the truant, saucy and bold,The one black sheep in my father's fold,"Once on a time," as the stories say,Went over the hill on a winter's day--Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn;But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak--Committed a hundred verses a week;Never forgot, an' never slipped;But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped;So over the hill to the poor-house.

As for Susan, her heart was kindAn' good--what there was of it, mind;Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,Nothin' she wouldn't sacrificeFor one she loved; an' that 'ere oneWas herself, when all was said an' done.An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,But any one could pull 'em about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,Save one poor fellow, and that was me;An' when, one dark an' rainy night,A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,They hitched on me, as the guilty chapThat carried one end o' the halter-strap.An' I think, myself, that view of the caseWasn't altogether out o' place;My mother denied it, as mothers do,But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.Though for me one thing might be said--That I, as well as the horse, was led;And the worst of whisky spurred me on,Or else the deed would have never been done.But the keenest grief I ever feltWas when my mother beside me knelt,An' cried an' prayed, till I melted down,As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.I kissed her fondly, then an' there,An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence--a bitter pillSome fellows should take who never will;And then I decided to go "out West,"Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,But Fortune seemed to like we me well,An' somehow every vein I struckWas always bubblin' over with luck.An', better than that, I was steady an' true,An' put my good resolutions through.But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me,"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,I had a resurrection straightway,An' started for her that very day.And when I arrived where I was grown,I took good care that I shouldn't be known;But I bought the old cottage, through and through,Of some one Charley had sold it to;And held back neither work nor gold,To fix it up as it was of old.The same big fire-place wide an' high,Flung up its cinders toward the sky;The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf--I wound it an' set it agoin' myself;An' if every thing wasn't just the same,Neither I nor money was to blame;Then--over the hill to the poor-house!

One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,With a team an' cutter I started away;My fiery nags was as black as coal;(They some'at resembled the horse I stole);I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door--A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;She rose to her feet in great surprise,And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;I saw the whole of her trouble's traceIn the lines that marred her dear old face;"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,Come over the hill from the poor-house!"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me;An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,Who often said, as I have heard,That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,For all of 'em owe me more or less);

But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a manIn always a-doin' the best he can;That whether, on the big book, a blotGets over a fellow's name or not,Whenever he does a deed that's white,It's credited to him fair and right.An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,An' the Lord divides his sheep an' goats;However they may settle my case,Wherever they may fix my place,My good old Christian mother, you'll see,Will be sure to stand right up for me,With over the hill from the poor-house.