Give me them! with the innocence dearer than all.
The joys of the palaces through which I roam,
Only swell my heart’s anguish—there’s no place like home.
The Boston Congregationalist, however, has given the following as the authentic form in which the author sent out his immortal song—the original manuscript being in the possession of an old lady in America, to whom at one time John Howard Payne was greatly attached:
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.