She’s been showering love around her all for someone else’s sake,
And it starts your mind a-wondering, making home,
Whether what you’ve been attending was a wedding or a wake,
Making home.
So you pull up at the stable, take the harness off the horse,
Hit your shins against a bucket—well, it does no good, of course.
There’s a gloom around the kitchen where the banquet still is spread,
And the cat upon the rocking-chair is sleeping like the dead,
While the ghosts come leering at you, and you’re home,
And “herself” she lights the candle, and she goes straight off to bed,