The air is brimmin' over with
A hundred different scents
That come from the syringa bush
Beside the garden fence
An' rose-bushes an' lilacs tall
That grow along the walk,—
But they aint none o' them so gay
As my ole hollyhock.
A hundred different scents
That come from the syringa bush
Beside the garden fence
An' rose-bushes an' lilacs tall
That grow along the walk,—
But they aint none o' them so gay
As my ole hollyhock.
Somehow I like the good ole kinds
O' posies full as well,
(Instead o those with Latin names
That nobody can spell),
Like mirigold an' asterziz
An' caliopsis fair,
An' bleedin' hearts an' arder tongues
An' ferns an' maidenhair.
O' posies full as well,
(Instead o those with Latin names
That nobody can spell),
Like mirigold an' asterziz
An' caliopsis fair,
An' bleedin' hearts an' arder tongues
An' ferns an' maidenhair.
Once when I'ze down ter Bosten town,
As I wuz goin' past,
I turned inter a posy place
Where everything wuz glass,
An' all the posies looked so pale
As though they'd like ter die,
Jest like them little city waifs,
It made me want ter cry.
As I wuz goin' past,
I turned inter a posy place
Where everything wuz glass,
An' all the posies looked so pale
As though they'd like ter die,
Jest like them little city waifs,
It made me want ter cry.
I tell yer what, the country is
The place ter make things grow,
The place ter make things grow,
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