An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
O give me my villa at Tooting again;
My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled;
And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold!
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so quiet,
There’s no place like home!
But parties perpetual now are my lot.
I’ve a home,—but I never enjoy it one jot;
It is only a place where I put on white ties—