MY OLD DEAR HOME.
“Betweenbroad fields of wheat and cornIs the lovely home where I was born;The peach-tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still:But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!“There is the barn—and as of yoreI can smell the hay from the open doorAnd see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!“There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments run,Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there!“There bubbles the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;’Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing:But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented door,To gladden the eyes that are no more.“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart:—To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows, with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall,—My heart still lingers with them all:—Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.”
“Betweenbroad fields of wheat and cornIs the lovely home where I was born;The peach-tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still:But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!“There is the barn—and as of yoreI can smell the hay from the open doorAnd see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!“There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments run,Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there!“There bubbles the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;’Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing:But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented door,To gladden the eyes that are no more.“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart:—To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows, with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall,—My heart still lingers with them all:—Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.”
“Betweenbroad fields of wheat and cornIs the lovely home where I was born;The peach-tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still:But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!
“Betweenbroad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lovely home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still:
But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!
“There is the barn—and as of yoreI can smell the hay from the open doorAnd see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!
“There is the barn—and as of yore
I can smell the hay from the open door
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:
But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!
“There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments run,Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there!
“There is the orchard—the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger’s children are swinging there!
“There bubbles the shady spring below,With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;’Twas there I found the calamus root,And watched the minnows poise and shoot,And heard the robin lave his wing:But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!
“There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;
’Twas there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing:
But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!
“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented door,To gladden the eyes that are no more.
“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;
Step lightly, for I love it still;
And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door,
To gladden the eyes that are no more.
“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,And when your children crowd your knees,Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart:—To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart:—
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows, with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall,—My heart still lingers with them all:—Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.”
“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows, with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall,—
My heart still lingers with them all:—
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still.”
My old dear home