MY BOYHOOD’S HOME.
Oh, many a time in the silent night
I sigh for the days gone by,
When a happy boy with gay delight
I hailed the cuckoo’s cry.
And the dear old woods that I loved so well,
Where the stock-dove built its nest;
The rippling stream and the hermit’s cell,
Its green and shady crest.
The stately home ’neath the elms so tall,
The lawn with its cool bright turf;
The old peach tree by the garden wall,
Each has its own sweet worth.
For my head is bent with the weight of years,
As white as the falling snow;
My stream of life through this vale of tears
Will soon have ceased to flow.