Georgie, come home!—Life's tendrils cling about thee,
Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led.
We miss thee, love!—Home is not home without thee—
The light and glory of the house have fled:
The autumn shiver of the linden-tree
Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!
Georgie, come home!—To parents, brother, sister
Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall,
Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista,"
While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall:
Our spirits falter at the close of day,
And weary night moves tardily away.
Georgie, come home!—The winds and waves are singing
The mournful music of their parting song,
To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing,
Some ill detains thee in the town so long:
Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear,
And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!
Georgie, come home!—The forest leaves are falling,
And dreary visions in thy absence come;
The fountain on the hill in vain is calling
Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home.
And I imagine every passing breeze
Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!
Georgie, come home!—Thy gentle look can banish
The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth;
In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish,
And sorrow soften into mellow mirth.
Return, my darling, never more to roam:
Heart of the Highlands!—Georgie, dear, come home!
Song of the Sewing-Machine
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!
Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;
And, unlike the drudges human,
Never weary night or day;
Never shedding tears of sorrow,
Never mourning friends untrue,
Never caring for the morrow,
Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster!
Merrily I glide along,
For no thankless, sordid master,
Ever seeks to do me wrong:
No extortioners oppress me,
No insulting words I dread—
I've no children to distress me
With unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature,
For endurance framed aright;
I'm not pale misfortune's creature,
Doomed life's battle here to fight:
Mine's a song of cheerful measure,
And no under-currents flow
To destroy the throb of pleasure
Which the poor so seldom know.
In the hall I hold my station,
With the wealthy ones of earth,
Who commend me to the nation
For economy and worth,
While unpaid the female labor,
In the attic-chamber lone,
Where the smile of friend or neighbor
Never for a moment shone.