And cling confiding to the hand
That points us to a home above.
3Though 'mong the lowly of the earth,
Contented with our homely fare,
How cheerful was the orphan's hearth
Before cold Death had entered there
4No mother's voice soothes us to rest--
No father's smile our vision greets:
Yet we've a home in every breast
That with a tender feeling beats.