Pawtucket Herald, And Independent Inquirer

POETRY
From the New England Weekly Review
“THE GOOD OLD TIMES."

The merry, merry Autumn winds
Again are sweeping free,
But I am sad—for things are not
As once they used to be;
When all the girls were homespun lasses,
And beaux without their starch and collars,
And Peter thought of Miss Peggy's tresses,
As he did straw;

Old Father Time he's not changed
Since I was five years old,
The autumn poet is still the
Crimson mixed with gold;
The whispers just the same old tune
That he did years ago,

I need to love to spend a day
Among the forest trees,
When chestnuts, by the bushel, fell
With every passing breeze;
I watched my home at supper time,
With basket and back full,
And found the mug of cider there
For me to take a pull.

And there were pleasant times at night,
In very frosty weather,
When we before the blazing fire
Were seated altogether;
The women with their knitting work,
The boys with each a book,
The dog asleep upon the hearth,
And puss within the nook.

But now I spend my autumn nights
Beside my fire alone,
I hear no more the hearty laugh
At jokes in banter thrown;
I gaze into my Lehigh fire,
And picture old times there,
Then wake and find the scene is but
A castle in the air.

O, how I long for those good times
That once I used to know,
When I wore neckcloths without starch
And tied them in a bow.
For every thing I know is changed
In name if not in look,
Excepting time—the Testament,
And Webster's Spelling Book!