The Mullein Meadow.
By Jean Blewett
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!