'Twas the close of a summer's day,
The sound of the flail had died away,
The sun was shedding a lingering gleam,
And the teakettle sung with its load of steam.
The old clock ticked that hung on the wall
And struck 'th the same old cuckoo call;
Then oft I could hear the mournful bay
Of some watch-dog far away.
Then all ter onct piped in a jay.
I just sot there with my senses gone,
And the shadders of twilight a-creepin' on,
With the eerie hum of the small pee-wees,
Over there in the cedar trees,
And the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam
'At told me the cows were coming home,
And the sighing breeze came o'er the croft,
But ah! comes a melody far more soft
Than the troubled notes of a lydian lute
Or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute;
It bids me awaken and live and rejoice,
'Tis only the sound of Elviry's voice--
Like an angel's whisper it comes to me:--
"Wake up, you fool, and come to tea."
An' it ain't in the spring er it ain't in the fall,
But the close of a summer's day,
That's all.