Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,
Patterin', patterin' up and down,
Dancin' over the kitchen floor,
Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,—
Right on the go from morn till late,
From the garden path ter the old front gate,—
There hain't no music ter me so sweet
As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea,
Them little bare feet trot there with me,
And a shrill little voice I love'll say:
"Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."
And I know when my dory comes ter land,
There's a spry little form somewheres on hand;
And the very fust sound my ears'll meet
Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed
Yer prints of love in my worn old breast!
And I sometimes think, when I come ter die,
'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by;
That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear
That little child's voice, so sweet and clear;
That even there, on the golden street,
I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.