Volume 1 — AN OLD SONG—“THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!”
Reading edition
When people ask me where I live, I hate to have to go and give A name like Smithville, plain. I’d rather say:—“Sir, if you please, My home is in the Hebrides,” Or, “High up in the Pyrenees,” Or, “At Gibraltar, Spain.”
“Constantinople,” too, sounds fine, And “Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine,” And “Madagascar,” too; And “Yokohama” sounds so great, And “Hindustan” is just first-rate; I rather like even “Bering Strait,” And “Cuzco” in Peru.
And yet, I would not be at night, Alone upon the “Isle of Wight,” Or on the “Zuyder Zee.” At “Nova Zembla,” in a gale, I know that I should just turn pale; For fear of earthquakes, I should quail In “sunny Italy.”
A place that sounds nice on the map, May have a little too much snap To keep within its wall, And so, though many names I see, That sound as stylish as can be, There’s no place quite so good for me, As Smithville, after all! Blanche Elizabeth Wade.
