When Our Hero Comes to Maine

Though the banners greet his coming when our hero journeys home,
Though the city, wreathed in colors, bears his name on flag-wrapt dome;
Does he come for speech and music? Does he come for gay parade,
And to see a moving pageant in its festal hues arrayed?
No, a gray and rain-washed farmhouse, hid beside a country lane
Is the goal of all his hurry, when our hero comes to Maine.
And past spectacle and pageant, bannered street and brave array
He is rushing, soul on fire, toward a dearer scene than they;
And the hand that gives him welcome may be calloused, may be brown,
But the fervor of its greeting can't be matched back there in town.
'Tis a plain old dad in drillin' who will clasp his hand; and then
He will shout, "Lord, ain't we tickled! God bless ye, how've ye be'n?
Why, massy me, ye rascal, how like fury ye have growed!
If I'd met ye in the village, swan, I wouldn't scursely knowed,
Your face behind them whiskers; 'fore ye know it boys are men!
Hey, mother, here's your youngster! Land o' Goshen, how've ye be'n?"
And if, you home returning son,
Some tithe of honor you have won,
Sweeter than telling the world of men
Is telling the old folks "how you've be'n."
Though of wealth and brains and beauty, festal
Maine has summoned all
And the banquet gleams in splendor in the city's spacious hall,
Does he envy them the viands spread beneath their flag-wrapt dome?
No, never, as he sits there at the old folks' board back home.
There are all the dear old good things made by mother's loving hands,
--Such things, so he discovers, only mother understands;
There's the old and treasured china, figured blue with gilded rim,
Saved to honor great occasions--now the whole is spread for him,
And the mother's eyes are wistful; she's assailed by constant doubt
Lest, spite of all his fearful raids, he somehow
"won't make out."
But, though the wanderer strives to eat, his heart keeps coming up,
And tears roll out of brimming eyes he lowers o'er his cup,
And in the throat there swells a lump, not grief,--and yet akin--
To see the old folks bowed so low, so snowyhaired and thin.
And yet their happy faces glow, until they're young again,
And dad lights up his old crook pipe and says,
"Now how've ye be'n?
Set down and tell us how ye've fared and tell us how ye've done,
You've sent us letters right along, but them don't talk it, son.
A minit with ye, face to face, beats hours with a pen;
God bless ye, bub! Ye're welcome back! Now tell us how've ye be'n?"
Ah, happy he who brings success
Back here to Maine to cheer and bless
The folks who ask in tenderness,
--Taking you into their arms again,
"God bless ye, dearie, how've ye be'n?"