’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near;
O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined,
And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind;
Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome
Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!
But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be;
And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come