In these times of awful panic
(Strikes are heard of everywhere),
While congress sits and piddles,
And starvation seems to stare.
When all business goes to pieces
And the devil 's on a tear,
In vain I long for refuge
From my troubles and my care.
And my heart is filled with longing
For that dear old mountain stream,
Losahatchie, on whose surface.
Like a vision in a dream,
I can always see reflected
Mount Coloma's rugged dome.
And the little vine-clad cottage
That I used to call my home.
Even now in heart I'm longing
To go back there once more,
And with line and pole to wander
All along its shady shore,
Where, as a careless, barefoot boy,
I once was wont to roam.
When life was free from sorrow,
In my Losahatchie home.
0! the promises that wooed me.
And lured me from that stream,
How false, and, oh! how empty
Those promises now seem.
All the promised wealth and honors
That e'en tempted me to roam,
1 would gladly now relinquish
For my Losahatchie home.
Yes, my dear old Losahatchie!
Since I wandered from thy shore,
The world has not all seemed to be
What I dreamed in days of yore.
And thy cooling shades and fountains,
And thy vales of fertile loam
Now fills my soul with longing
For my Losahatchie home.
Yes, yes; oh, Losahatchie!
Thou queen of mountain streams.
How often I revisit thee
n my nightly troubled dreams,
To lave my fevered temples
In thy cooling spray and foam,
'Neath thy spreading beech and maples,
At my Losahatchie home.