Though you tramp the wide land over,
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 Father and our Mother
In some photographing 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.