Oh, it 's yearning, alas, for the olden scenes
  And the paths that lead to the leafy wood,
And the wild flowers bursting in cool ravines'.
  Where the redbird trilling an interlude
'Mid the locust bloom of a paradise
Under the ocean blue of skies.

Oh, it's yearning, alas, to stand once more
  Where the vine clings over the window-sill;
And gazing again from the farmhouse door
  To the tranquil stream, where the watermill
Is murm'ring its song as it grinds the corn
That grows in the valley where you were born.

Oh, it's yearning, alas, and I'm nearly dead
  For a hoecake, dodger or crisp corn pone;
For I can't hold out on the baker's bread
  And the shredded wheat; but I sit and hone
For a good big sack of fresh cornmeal
And a hoecake big as a wagon wheel.

And just a touch of some bacon grease
  Around the griddle to tone it down;
Then flay it over-this luscious piece,
  Till just the tinge of a juicy brown-
I can taste the butter so sweet and cool
They're bringing up from the springhouse pool.

I'm tired of the junk that you get in cans,
  And my jawbone aches for a good hog jowl;
Oh, give me the music of frying pans
  On a country stove, and, oh, bless my soul,
I would eat in the kitchen or anywhere
If they'd give me a fill of the cornbread fare.

I want to get back where the roses blow
  O'er the dear old yard, and I want to stand
Enraptured again where the lilies grow,
  With a slab of that cornbread in my hand;
Just to eat and to sweetly roam
In a cornbread dream-I'm going home.