There's a barn standing tenantless, the deep mangers bare Not a stall that is occupied by gelding or mare. There's no hay on the mow floor nor grain in the bin There's a desolate stillness without and within. No wide-shouldered farmer who's hustling about Not a chore-doing hired hand nor a young lad to shout. Nothing moves in the barnyard, the gardens, the lot No machinery or animals -- neither kitten or tot. House windows stare vacantly day after day There's no action inside with no work and no play. There's no fragrant kitchen, no clothesline of duds There are bare shelves in the pantry, no baskets of spuds. There's no bustling housewife with competent air No welcoming fireside nor bright cushioned chair. There's no wee rocking cradle, no labor, no joy Not a laughing young girl nor a barefooted boy. These abandoned small farmsteads -- no longer of worth Are the loneliest, loneliest places on earth.