l've been over the river to-dayi wlfe and down to your old home, Wanderlng througU the grassy paths wuere we U8ed to go and como, And yon'd be ainazed to see the changes in the house bo gray and old; When you bear In raind that Jast last spring ' twas bargalned for and sold. They're flxlng it up In gotnlo style, wilh gablss, and two or tbree wlnge, A. veranda stretched across the front, and a heap of other things . Butloantsay lt sults my taste, Mary, although lts very grand, For l'd rather see that old gray house on tbat precious bit of land. lts foollsh, perhaps, but I can't help the faot, and I don't mlnd telling you, wlfe, That the sorrow rushed lnto my eyes In tears, and cut my heart llke a knife, When I saw them strangers tearing away, wlth hands that were rude In thelr touch, The vlne-oovered plllars that have servcd for years to support the old backporob. There's somethingabout that old porch.wlfe, that 1 havn't got over yet. And lf I should live a hundred years, I'rn certaln I Bhouldn't forget The dear old times we used to have, slttlng beneath the shiule Of lts mossy-covered roof, and wanting no llght but that, the-moonlight made. 'Twas thero that I saw you flrst, you know, as I carne down thehlll wlth John, You were standing there, looking for us, on the steps, and you had a blue dress on ; Just the same blue dress that many a time you wore, you ely llttle miss, When you hid behlnd those gray old posts to weloome me wlth a kiss. I looked for our names on the pillar white, whlch I cut in letters fine; Adayor two alter that moon-llt eve when you promlbed to be mine; But the vlnes bad wound tbelr tendrils so thick over the surface gray, That, though I tried hard I could not tear the cllnglng thlngs away. Tears in my eyesï of course there are, meiaory stlre tbe thlngs On my heart withfar loosklllfula hand to blot frora my Ups these tblogs. But, though the old porch, where we learned the lesson of love ha crutnbled away, We feel assured thatlnall these years tbat love has known no decay. Aud tbough, dear Mary, we are growing old, and our locks are tnrnlng gray, I believethe poetry In our lives bas not yet passed away; For deeper upon our bearts, each day, In letters of purest gold, Is prlnted the soug oriove we sang on the steps of the porch so old.