He minds him of his youth time ever, And the farm where he was born; The meadows green, and the flowing river, And the fields of tasselled corn.
The sweet perfume of the apple’s bloom, The sight of the mountain’s blue, The drooping willows and yellow broom, And waving wheatfields too.
He sees the cows from the pasture land, As down the lane they come, And sister Nell, with pail in hand, To wait their coming home.
He sees again his father ploughing, In the old-fashioned sturdy way, He hears again the cock’s shrill crowing, That waked him oft at break of day.
His memory takes him back apace, To early manhood’s prime, When a gentle voice and pleasant face Impressed him for all time.
For loving lass and wandering lad, Since ever the world began, Though parted in grief, the love they had, Will come to each again.
His wayward life he ponders on With anguish deep and keen, And as the past he looks upon, Sadly thinks—it might have been.
But vain regrets will help him not. Nor vanished hopes renew; He only knows his present lot Has duties stern to do.
He cares not now whate’er befalls, His faith he still will keep; The next on watch in turn he calls, And folds himself in sleep.
Conobie, June 21st, 1894.