John McKeen

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,     His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,     His face unshaven, and none the less,     His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,     And the wealth of a workman's vote!     Bring him, O Memory, here once more,     And tilt him back in his Windsor chair     By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er     And the light of the hearth is across the floor,     And the crickets everywhere!     And let their voices be gladly blent     With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,     And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,     And neighborly gossip and merriment,     And old-time fiddle-tunes!     Tick the clock with a wooden sound,     And fill the hearing with childish glee     Of rhyming riddle, or story found     In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound     Old book of the Used-to-be!     John McKeen of the Past! Ah John,     To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!     To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don     A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone     Out on election days!     John ah, John! Did it prove your worth     To yield you the office you still maintain?     To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth     Of all the happier things on earth     To the hunger of heart and brain?     Under the dusk of your villa trees,     Edging the drives where your blooded span     Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,     Where are the children about your knees,     And the mirth, and the happy man?     The blinds of your mansion are battened to;     Your faded wife is a close recluse;     And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do     Dutifully all that is willed of you,     And marry as you shall choose!     But O for the old-home voices, blent     With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,     And the motherly chirrup of glad content,     And neighborly gossip and merriment,     And the old-time fiddle-tunes!