The Dear Folks In Devon

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ-
    mas, and to-night
I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly
    berries bright.
The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd
    dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon,
    how they'll talk and think of me.

Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas
    morn, and if there's one
As comes across from Canada straight
    from their absent son,
My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my
    Dad'll likely say:
"Don't seem like Christmas time no more,
    with our dear lad away."

I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef,
    and Brother Jimmy's wife
Will say her never tasted such, no, not in
    all her life.
And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt
    in your mouth, 'tis true,
But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as
    mothers always do!

Ah me! If I could just have wings, and
    in the dimsey light
Go stealing up the cobbled path this
    lonesome Christmas night,
Lift up the latch with gentle hand — My!
    What a shout there'd be!
From those dear folks down in Devon!
    What a welcomin' for me!