'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding tears drop down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding tears drop down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.