My Boyhood Home
The home of my boyhood, the place of my birth
It is dearer to me then all others on earth
Its charms are still with me wherever I roam
I’ll never forget my own boyhood home.
My dear loving mother, she watched o’er my youth
And taught me the lessons of honor and truth.
Her voice, in my fancy, in accents so low
Is whispering to me wherever I go.
The voice of my father still sounds in my ear’;
The laugh of my brothers and sisters so dear.
The cow bell’s jingle; the old dinner horn.
The crow of the cock to awake us each morn.
The hoot of the owl, the lone whip-poor-will
At evening we heard from the woodland and hill,
They still ring in my ears tho long years have past
Since I saw the dear home of my infancy last.
Altho many a mile have I wandered away,
My body grown feeble, my hair turning gray;
Yet the happy scenes linger; I dream of them yet;
The home of my boyhood I’ll never forget.
How happy I was to find this beautifully evocative poem…written by Joel H. Johnson, son of my 4th great-grandparents, Ezekiel and Julia Ellis Hills Johnson, of his fond memories of the childhood home the family lived in during the years 1814 through 1833 in New York…
A family I knew not much about until recently—a nice, long family biography found online and devoured by me—is helping me get to know these people that are part of my life…
Thank-you, Joel, for leaving me this wonderful window into your childhood home…