Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the locks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.
O make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy bones stark mad
To dance a reel.
Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
From out your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.
Wi’ Him I call my own.
The branches o’ the woodbine hide
My little cottage wall,
An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch,
I envy not the hall.
The wooded hills before my eyes
Are spread both far and wide;
An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress,
In all her lovely pride.
It is, indeed, a lovely spot,
O’ singing birds an’ flowers;
’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true,
I pass away my hours.
Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen,
So dear in all its charms;
Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,
Freed from the world’s alarms.
For should love’s magic change the scene,
To trackless lands unknown,
’Twere Eden in the desert wild,
Wi’ him I call my own.
