The Home-Comer.
OOH, many a leaf will fall to-night,As she wanders through the wood!And many an angry gust will breakThe dreary solitude.I wonder if she’s past the bridge,Where Luggie moans beneath;While rain-drops clash in slanted linesOn rivulet and heath.Disease hath laid his palsied palmUpon my aching brow;The headlong blood of twenty-oneIs thin and sluggish now.’Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,Without a single starTo light the shadow on her soulWith sparkle from afar:The moon is canopied with clouds,And her burden it is sore;—What would wee Jackie do, if heShould never see her more?Aye, light the lamp, and hang it upAt the window fair and free;’Twill be a beacon on the hillTo let your mother see.And trim it well, my little Ann,For the night is wet and cold,And you know the weary, winding wayAcross the miry wold.All drenched will be her simple gown,And the wet will reach her skin:I wish that I could wander down,And the red quarry win—To take the burden from her back,And place it upon mine;With words of kind condolence,To bid her not repine.You have a kindly mother, dears,As ever bore a child,And heaven knows I love her wellIn passion undefiled.Ah me! I never thought that sheWould brave a night like this,While I sat weaving by the fireA web of phantasies.How the winds beat this home of oursWith arrow-falls of rain;This lonely home upon the hillThey beat with might and main.And ’mid the tempest one lone heartAnticipates the glow,Whence, all her weary journey done,Shall happy welcome flow.’Tis after ten! Oh, were she here,Young man altho’ I be,I could fall down upon her neck,And weep right gushingly!I have not loved her half enough,The dear old toiling one,The silent watcher by my bed,In shadow or in sun.
OOH, many a leaf will fall to-night,As she wanders through the wood!And many an angry gust will breakThe dreary solitude.I wonder if she’s past the bridge,Where Luggie moans beneath;While rain-drops clash in slanted linesOn rivulet and heath.Disease hath laid his palsied palmUpon my aching brow;The headlong blood of twenty-oneIs thin and sluggish now.’Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,Without a single starTo light the shadow on her soulWith sparkle from afar:The moon is canopied with clouds,And her burden it is sore;—What would wee Jackie do, if heShould never see her more?Aye, light the lamp, and hang it upAt the window fair and free;’Twill be a beacon on the hillTo let your mother see.And trim it well, my little Ann,For the night is wet and cold,And you know the weary, winding wayAcross the miry wold.All drenched will be her simple gown,And the wet will reach her skin:I wish that I could wander down,And the red quarry win—To take the burden from her back,And place it upon mine;With words of kind condolence,To bid her not repine.You have a kindly mother, dears,As ever bore a child,And heaven knows I love her wellIn passion undefiled.Ah me! I never thought that sheWould brave a night like this,While I sat weaving by the fireA web of phantasies.How the winds beat this home of oursWith arrow-falls of rain;This lonely home upon the hillThey beat with might and main.And ’mid the tempest one lone heartAnticipates the glow,Whence, all her weary journey done,Shall happy welcome flow.’Tis after ten! Oh, were she here,Young man altho’ I be,I could fall down upon her neck,And weep right gushingly!I have not loved her half enough,The dear old toiling one,The silent watcher by my bed,In shadow or in sun.
OOH, many a leaf will fall to-night,As she wanders through the wood!And many an angry gust will breakThe dreary solitude.I wonder if she’s past the bridge,Where Luggie moans beneath;While rain-drops clash in slanted linesOn rivulet and heath.Disease hath laid his palsied palmUpon my aching brow;The headlong blood of twenty-oneIs thin and sluggish now.’Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,Without a single starTo light the shadow on her soulWith sparkle from afar:The moon is canopied with clouds,And her burden it is sore;—What would wee Jackie do, if heShould never see her more?Aye, light the lamp, and hang it upAt the window fair and free;’Twill be a beacon on the hillTo let your mother see.And trim it well, my little Ann,For the night is wet and cold,And you know the weary, winding wayAcross the miry wold.All drenched will be her simple gown,And the wet will reach her skin:I wish that I could wander down,And the red quarry win—To take the burden from her back,And place it upon mine;With words of kind condolence,To bid her not repine.You have a kindly mother, dears,As ever bore a child,And heaven knows I love her wellIn passion undefiled.Ah me! I never thought that sheWould brave a night like this,While I sat weaving by the fireA web of phantasies.How the winds beat this home of oursWith arrow-falls of rain;This lonely home upon the hillThey beat with might and main.And ’mid the tempest one lone heartAnticipates the glow,Whence, all her weary journey done,Shall happy welcome flow.’Tis after ten! Oh, were she here,Young man altho’ I be,I could fall down upon her neck,And weep right gushingly!I have not loved her half enough,The dear old toiling one,The silent watcher by my bed,In shadow or in sun.
O