And for those long-lost days of joy
My spirit in its sadness dreams.
There’s none which seems so dear to me
As that where past life’s early morn;
There’s none for which I sigh so oft,
As for the cot where I was born.
CHORUS.
The old brown cot, the low brown cot,
The moss-grown cot beneath the hill;
Though years have pass’d since I was there,