Though you sail in many climes,
There is nothing half so precious
As the portraits of old times;
Of old Grandfather and Granny
In the clothes that then were worn;
Of the house that knew our boyhood,
Or the hut where we were born.
Of our parents, stiff and staring,
In some portrait-taker’s den,
On the morning of their wedding –
God, they’ve seen some times since then!
O they wake the dead within us,
And they bring us back at last
To the courage of our fathers
And the best part of the past.








