You may talk about your furnace fires
That warm your city homes,
And tell me how the heat aspires,
And through the building roams;
'Tis handy, I'll admit, to push
A little iron wheel,
And let the ghost of summer out
Around the room to steal.
But oh, I'd love to see once more
My father's big fireplace;
To hear the old logs sing and roar,
And watch the dodging sparks outpour
And up the chimney chase!

Your modern grate's a nice affair;
When full of anthracite,
It lends the room a pleasant air
On any winter's night.
The glowing coal's a flower-bed—
Lilies and crimson pinks,
And 'mong them many an elfin eye
Peeps through, and winks and blinks.
But oh, I long to see once more
My father's old fireplace;
To watch the shadows flicker o'er
My mother's whitely sanded floor,
And round the ceiling race!

These patent parlor stoves are fine,
And charm away the chill,
With windows whence the light may shine
The room with cheer to fill.
Some people love to boast about
Our stylish modern ways,
And thank the Lord who cast their lines
In these progressive days;
But oh, that I might be once more
Beside the old fireplace!
To see the fleet-winged flames upsoar
And watch the flashes on the floor
Entwine and interlace.

Hearty and jovial fires were those
I loved so when a boy.
They tinted darkness like the rose
And warmed the heart with joy;
They chuckled in an undertone,
They cackled, whistled, laughed;
They burned so bright, the cares of life
Flew upward in the draught!
And oh, I'd love to be once more
Beside the old fireplace;
To drowse upon the sanded floor
And find my mother bending o'er
With love-light on her face.