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The Old Swimmin Hole

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep     Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,     And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below     Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know     Before we could remember anything but the eyes     Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;     But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,     And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.     Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!

In the happy days of yore,    When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,    Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide    That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,    It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress    My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.    But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll    From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.    Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!

In the long, lazy days    When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,    How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,    Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane    You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole    They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.    But the lost joys is past!

Let your tears in sorrow roll    Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.    Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,    And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;    And it mottled the worter with amber and gold    Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;    And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by    Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,    Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle    As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.    Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!

When I last saw the place,    The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;    The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot    Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.    And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be —    But never again will theyr shade shelter me!    And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,    And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

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James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known a…
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