When you’re home.
But you don’t feel much like sleeping with the throbbing in your brain,
And your heart is on a journey vagabonding with a train;
So you peel the choking collar off, and get out in the cool,
Where you light your pipe and smoke upon the old verandah stool,
Thinking matters slowly over when you’re home,
Winding back the skein that somehow’s got entangled on the spool,
When you’re home.
Here’s the little home you started when your hopes were all aglow;
Them’s the currajongs you planted five-and-thirty year ago;