1. the days gone by
Poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Music by Ted Jacobs

o the days gone by! o the days gone by!
the apples in the orchard,
and the pathway through the rye;
the chirrup of the robin,
and the whistle of the quail
as he piped across the meadows
sweet as any nightingale;
when the bloom was on the clover,
and the blue was in the sky,
and my happy heart brimmed over,
in the days gone by. in the days gone by.

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

2. eldorado
Poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Music by Ted Jacobs

gaily bedight,
a gallant knight,
in sunshine and in shadow,
had journeyed long
singing a song,
in search of eldorado.

but he grew old --
this knight so bold --
and o'er his heart a shadow
fell as he found
no spot of ground
that looked like eldorado.

and, as his strength
failed him at length,
he met a pilgrim shadow --
" shadow," said he,
"where can it be --
this land of eldorado?"

"over the mountains
of the moon,
down the valley of the shadow,
ride, boldly ride."
the shade replied, --
"if you seek for eldorado!"

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

5. the arrow and the song
Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Music by Ted Jacobs

i shot an arrow into the air,
it fell to earth, i know not where;
for, so swiftly it flew, the sight
could not follow it in its flight

i breathed a song into the air,
it fell to earth, i know not where;
for who has sight so keen and strong,
that it can follow the flight of song?

long, long afterward, in an oak
i found the arrow, still unbroke;
and the song, from beginning to end,
i found again in the heart of a friend.

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

6. when the frost is on the punkin
Poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Music by Ted Jacobs and David Vidal

when the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock,
and you hear the kyouck and gobble
of the struttin' turkey-cock,
and the clackin' of the guineys,
and the cluckin' of the hens,
and the rooster's hallylooyer
as he tiptoes on the fence;
o, it's then's the times a feller
is a-feelin' at his best,
with the risin' sun to greet him
from a night of peaceful rest,
as he leaves the house, bareheaded,
and goes out to feed the stock,
when the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock.

they's something kindo' harty-like
about the atmusfere
when the heat of summer's over
and the coolin' fall is here --
of course we miss the flowers,
and the blossums on the trees,
and the mumble of the hummin'-birds
and buzzin' of the bees;
but the air's so appetizin';
and the landscape through the haze
of a crisp and sunny morning
of the airly autumn days
is a pictur' that no painter has
the colorin' to mock --
when the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock.

the husky, rusty russel
of the tossels of the corn,
and the raspin' of the tangled leaves,
as golden as the morn;
the stubble in the furries --
kindo' lonesome-like, but still
a-preachin' sermons to us
of the barns they growed to fill;
the strawstack in the medder,
and the reaper in the shed;
the hosses in theyr stalls below --
the clover overhead! --
o, it sets my hart a-clickin'
like the tickin' of a clock,
when the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock!

then your apples all is gethered,
and the ones a feller keeps
is poured around the celler-floor
in red and yeller heaps;
and your cider-makin' 's over,
and your wimmern-folks is through
with their mince and apple-butter,
and theyr souse and sausage, too!...
i don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich
a thing could be
as the angels wantin' boardin',
and they'd call around on me --
i'd want to 'commodate 'em -- all the
whole-indurin' flock --
when the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock!

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

9. hope is the thing with feathers
Poem by Emily Dickinson
Music by Ted Jacobs

hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all,

and sweetest in the gale is heard;
and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm.

i've heard it in the chillest land,
and on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

10. wynken, blynken, and nod
Poem by Eugene Field
Music by Lucy Simon

wynken, blynken and nod one night
sailed off in a wooden shoe --
sailed on a river of crystal light,
into a sea of dew.
"where are you going,
and what do you wish?"
the old moon asked the three.
"we have come to fish for the herring fish
that live in this beautiful sea;
nets of silver and gold have we!"
said wynken, blynken, and nod.

the old moon laughed and sang a song,
as the rocked in the wooden shoe,
and the wind that sped them
all night long
ruffled the waves of dew.
the little stars were the herring fish
that lived in that beautiful sea --
"now cast you nets wherever you wish
-- never afeard are we";
so cried the stars
to the fishermen three:
wynken, blynken, and nod.

wynken and blynken are two little eyes,
and nod is a little head,
and the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
is a wee one's trundle-bed.
so shut you eyes while mother sings
of wonderful sights that be,
and you shall see the beautiful things
as you rock in the misty sea,
where the old shoe rocked
the fishermen three:
wynken, blynken, and nod.

Go Back to the days gone by . . .

11. some time
Poem by Eugene Field
Music by Ted Jacobs

last night, my darling, as you slept,
i thought i heard you sigh,
and to your little crib i crept,
and watched a space thereby;
the bending down, i kissed your brow --
for, oh! i love you so --
you are too young to know it now,
but some time you shall know.

some time, when, in a darkened place
here others come to weep,
your eyes shall see a weary face
calm in eternal sleep;
the speechless lips, the wrinkled brow,
the patient smile may show --
you are too young to know it now,
but some time you shall know.

look backward, then, into the years,
and see me here to-night --
see, o my darling! how my tears
are falling as i write;
and feel once more upon your brow
the kiss of long ago --
you are too young to know it now,
but some time you shall know.

Go Back to the days gone by . . .