The Old Timer’s Lament

O where is the Cape that I used to know In the quaint old days of the long ago? The weathered house with its friendly smoke From the looming background of silver oak; And the huge brick oven that flanked the grate Where the fireplace yawned like the flaming gate Of a fairy world to my childish gaze While the russets sputtered before the blaze— Was there ever such comfort and homey cheer As the Cape that my memory holds so dear? There were braided rugs on the sanded floor And that queer round cellar—what bounteous store Of pickle and relish and sweet preserve Seemed overflowing each ample curve! What jars of berries and stewed beach plum And jugs—half hidden—of cherry rum— And jugs that frothed with potato yeast, And the dainties saved for Thanksgiving’s feast I think of them often and sigh—“Heigh-ho” O where is the Cape that I used to know? And that open chamber and corded bed Where I listened to pattering rain overhead. Rope handled sea chests and leathern trunks And models of clippers and Chinese junks, And apples drying in clustered strings With numberless other wonderful things. No cave from the storied Arabian Nights Was filled with more treasures and marvelous sights Than our storehouse under the eaves could show— O where is the Cape that I used to know? And the fragrant gardens that memory links With the olden days—O those sweet Cape pinks, And the hollyhocks and the columbine, And the savory herbs by the ivy vine, With the fish nets drying along the slope Mid tangles of buoys and fresh tarred rope— Yes the modern gardens are trim and neat But I often think—“Do they smell as sweet “As those beds where the roses loved to grow?” O where is the Cape that I used to know? The captains turned from the seven seas To end their days in such homes as these; And the tales they spun for my youthful ear I have waited a lifetime their like to hear. But they sleep where the mournful willows bend O’er that silent city where voyages end; Though their memory lingers in many a page Of log books crumbling with salt and age, And many a rare old curio— O where is the Cape that I used to know? But time flows on like the ceaseless tide And cabins clutter the country side Like nesting gulls. Where the horse, hock deep, Once plodded the sands the autos sweep Before my eyes in a dizzy blur Of mad confusion and noise and stir. For peace and quiet have never a place In this modern world with its feverish pace With its movie glare and its radio— O where is the Cape that I used to know?