Conductor , thar's my ticket,
Jes punch it through an' through,
An' when yer tired o' punchin'
Give me a punch er two!
I 've been so long from mother
An' paid so little heed
To all her gentle pleadin',
A trouncin' 's what I need.
I 've been out West a-minin'
An' found a heap o' gold;
Yes, I 've been growin' wealthy,
With mother growin' old;
But now we 'll taste the honey
That's in the honeycomb:
I 've sent her lots o' money,
An' she knows I 'm comin' home.

I 've seen a heap o' mothers
With faces most divine,—
Perhaps as dear to others—
But never one like mine;
An' when I got a-thinkin'
About her love for me,
I wondered if in heaven
The folks were good as she.
I 've no excuse to offer
For wanderin' about;
I had the rovin' fever
An' had to wear it out;
But now we 'll taste the honey
That's in the honeycomb,
For I have written mother
That I am comin' home.

In boyhood sport, my father
An' I could not agree:
He never took the trouble
To be a boy with me;—
An' while we lived together
We seemed to grow apart;
But what he lost, my mother
Kept gainin' in my heart.
It's mighty hard a-startin',
But once you 've got away
In the land of the forgetful,
It 's easy 'nough to stay—
Until you miss the honey
That 's in the honeycomb
An' write yer dear old mother
That you are comin' home.

I 've been in Californy,
Whar so many flowers grow,
There 's danger treadin' on 'em
Less you 're watchin' whar you go:
Houses overgrown with roses
Have a calla lily hedge,
With geraniums a-climbin'
To the gable window ledge—
All the year, out-doors a-bloomin',
Yet there 's nothin' to compare
With yer boyhood mornin'-glories.
An' yer mother standin' there!
An' that 's the kind o' honey
That 's in the honeycomb;
I can see her thar a-watchin'
'Cause she knows I 'm comin' home.

I know jes what she 's doin'—
She 's watchin' somethin' grow:
Those red an' yellow roses,
Because I liked 'em so;
An' talkin' to the neighbors
About her splendid boy,
An' checkin' with her apron
Her overflowin' joy—
As though I were some angel
That never did a wrong—
But that 's the way o' mothers:
Love is their only song!
Now, that 's the kind o' honey
That 's in the honey comb;
I wrote her all about it,
An' she knows I 'm comin' home.

You forgot to punch my ticket,—
Well, any time will do;—
No doubt I 've set you thinkin'
About yer mother, too,
An' how she longs to see you—
You need n't try to speak
With that distilled emotion
A-runnin' down yer cheek;
For that's a sort o' language
That one can understand
Without a dictionary—
Conductor, thar 's my hand:
An' if you want the honey
While it 's in the honeycomb,
Jes write yer dear old mother
That you are comin' home.