‘What is home, you silly, silly wight,
That it seems to you to shine so bright?
What is home?—’Tis a place so gay,
Where the birds are singing all the day;
Where a wood is close by, and a river dear,
And the banks they sleep in the water clear;
Where the roses are red and the lilies pale;
And the little brooks run along every vale.
Is it nowhere but home, you silly-billee,
That the thrushes sing in each shady tree?