The hour is ne’er as sweet,
As the hour a’ready gone by,
When we’d sit on the creakin’ porch,
And talk alone, just you and I.
We said all the same sort of things,
As we said most every day,
And folks might-a said we were dull,
For enjoyin’ ourselves this way.
You’d point to the hay fields a-growin’,
And say, “Well, it looks ‘bout like gold.”
Then I’d show you my newest knittin’,
As your hand I’d reach o’er and hold.
I can still hear your foot a-tappin’,
Back and forth to the evening breeze,
As we talked of the morrow’s work,
And the peaches we’d pick from the trees.
Now them days are long behind us,
All the hay fields are dry and dead,
And I sit on the porch without you,
And visit old memories instead.