This here sixty-acre paddock was the first you called your own;
That there clearing was a forest, with the timber overgrown.
So you start a-recollecting, when you’re home.
Five-and-thirty years have flitted, and you don’t know where they’ve flown,
When you’re home.
Here you’ve been along to-night to see the married girl away,
And you rocked her in her cradle—well, it seems but yesterday;
And “herself” you thought she looked so old, and bent and worn with care—
Five-and-thirty slaving winters pile the snows on heart and hair—
And you find that you’re an old man, making Home;