When a man gits on his uppers in a
     hard pan sort of town,
An’ he ain’t got nuthin’ comin’ an’ he
     can’t afford ter eat,
An’ he’s in a fix fer lodgin’, an’ he
     wanders up an’ down
An’ you’d fancy he’d been boozin’,
     he’s so loosed ’bout the feet:
When he’s feelin’ sneakin’ sorry, an’
     his belt is hangin’ slack.
An’ his face is peaked an grey-like,
     an’ his heart gits down an’ whines.
Then he’s apt ter git a-thinkin’ an’
     a-wishin’ he was back,
In the little ol’ log cabin in the
     shadder of the pines.

When he’s on the blazin’ desert, an’
     his canteen’s sprung a leak.
An’ he’s all alone an’ crazy, an’ he’s
     crawlin’ like a snail.
An’ his tongue’s so black an’ swollen
     that it hurts him fer to speak,
An’ he gouges down fer water, an’
     the raven’s on his trail;
When he’s done with care an’ cursin’
     an’ he feels more like to cry,
An’ he sees ol’ Death a grinnin’ an’
     he thinks upon his crimes,
Then he’s like ter hav’ a vision as he’
     settles down ter die,
Of the little ol’ log cabin, and the
     roses an’ the vines.

O, the little ol’ log cabin, it’s a
     solemn shinin’ mark,
When a feller gits ter sinnin’, and
     a-goin’ ter the wall.
An’ folks don’t understand him, an’
     he’s gropin’ in the dark,
An’ he’s sick of bein’ cursed at, an’
     he’s longin’ for his call;
When the sun of life’s a-sinkin’ — you
     can see it way above,
On the hill from out the shadder in
     a glory ’gin the sky,
An’ your mother’s voice is callin’ an’
     her arms are stretched in love,
An’ somehow you’re glad you’re
     goin’ an’ you ain’t a scared to die;
When you’ll be like a kid again, an’
     nestle to her breast,
An’ never leave its shelter an’ forget,
     an’ love an’ rest.

 ~ Robert Service

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