Ralston Town
O, Ralston town, O, Ralston town,
I hear so many say,
"The town is dead. I feel quite sure
That Ralston's had its day."
It's true, no more the woodsman's axe
Is heard upon our hills,
No trees are felled, no logs are cut,
To feed the hungry mills.
No more the throaty teamster's voice
Is heard at break of day,
While harnessing for work, his team,
The shining roan and bay.
No more the bark- racks heaping high,
With spicy, pungent load,
Bound for a busy tannery plant,
Go lumbering down the road.
No more the smoke, from out the stacks,
Of brick, that towers high,
In fleecy, feathery, billows white,
Mounts up to reach the sky.
Yet, Ralston town, O Ralston town,
I still have faith in you,
An old sweetheart, you long have been;
To you I'll e'er be true
I love your homes, so trim and neat,
I love your tumbled shacks,
The narrow alleys, and the streets,
Highways, and railroad tracks,
I love your hills, the rocks, the streams,
The trees, the shrubs, the vines,
The noise, the din of moving trains
The tipple, and the mines.
And I believe that, soon or late,
The smoke again will rise
From out the cold and silent stacks,
That tower toward the skies,
That wheels will turn, and whistles sound,
And we again will know,
A busy, thriving, little town,
As in the years ago.
But, Ralston town, dear Ralston town,
Let come whatever will,
You are to me "The old home town."
And I will love you still.
Oct 26, 1926