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Glad to get back home again,

Where abide the friendly men;

Glad to see the same old scenes

And the little house that means

All the joys the soul has treasured —

Glad to be where smiles are n't measured,

Where I've blended with the gladness

All the heart has known of sadness,

Where some long-familiar steeple

Marks my town of friendly people.

Though it's fun to go a-straying

Where the bands are nightly playing

And the throngs of men and women

Drain the cup of pleasure brimmin’,

I am glad when it is over

That I've ceased to play the Rover.

And when once the train starts chugging

Towards the children I'd be hugging,

All my thoughts and dreams are set there;

Fast enough I cannot get there.

Guess I was n't meant for bright lights,

For the blaze of red and white lights,

For the throngs that seems to smother

In their selfishness, each other;

For whenever I've been down there,

Tramped the noisy, blatant town there,

Always in a week I've started

Yearning, hungering, heavy-hearted,

For the home town and its spaces

Lit by fine and friendly faces.

Like to be where men about me

Do not look on me to doubt me;

Where I know the men and women,

Know why tears some eyes are dimmin’,

Know the good folks an’ the bad folks

An’ the glad folks an’ the sad folks;

Where we live with one another,

Meanin’ something to each other.

An’ I'm glad to see the steeple,

Where the crowds are n't merely people.