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!