A table cloth that's slightly soiled br Where greasy little hands have toiled; br The napkins kept in silver rings, br And only ordinary things br From which to eat, a simple fare, br And just the wife and kiddies there, br And while I serve, the clatter glad br Of little girl and little lad br Who have so very much to say br About the happenings of the day. br br Four big round eyes that dance with glee, br Forever flashing joys at me, br Two little tongues that race and run br To tell of troubles and of fun; br The mother with a patient smile br Who knows that she must wait awhile br Before she'll get a chance to say br What she's discovered through the day. br She steps aside for girl and lad br Who have so much to tell their dad. br br Our manners may not be the best; br Perhaps our elbows often rest br Upon the table, and at times br That very worst of dinner crimes, br That very shameful act and rude br Of speaking ere you've downed your food, br Too frequently, I fear, is done, br So fast the little voices run. br Yet why should table manners stay br Those tongues that have so much to say? br br At many a table I have been br Where wealth and luxury were seen, br And I have dined in halls of pride br Where all the guests were dignified; br But when it comes to pleasure rare br The perfect dinner table's where br No stranger's face is ever known: br The dinner hour we spend alone, br When little girl and little lad br Run riot telling things to dad.