The Mullein Meadow.

Down in the mullein meadow          The lusty thistle springs,         The butterflies go criss-cross,          The lonesome catbird sings,         The alderbush is flaunting          Her blossoms white as snow -         The same old mullein meadow          We played in long ago.         The waste land of the homestead,          The arid sandy spot,         Where reaper's song is never heard,          Where wealth is never sought,         But where the sunshine lingers,          And merry breezes come         To gather pungent perfumes          From the mullein-stalks abloom.         There's a playground on the hillside,          A playhouse in the glade,         With mulleins for a garden,          And mulleins for a shade.         And still the farmer grumbles          That nothing good will grow         In this old mullein meadow          We played in long ago!