Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs,The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,
The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow--The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago.
The waste land of the homestead, The arid sandy spot,Where reaper's song is never heard, Where wealth is never sought,
But where the sunshine lingers, And merry breezes comeTo gather pungent perfumes From the mullein-stalks a-bloom.
There's a playground on the hillside, A playhouse in the glade,With mulleins for a garden, And mulleins for a shade.
And still the farmer grumbles That nothing good will growIn this old mullein meadow We played in long ago!
