’Tis of such things I dream.
No, mother, no?—’tis that thy cheek,
Thy smile of tender joy,
Thine eye of light, that used to speak
Such fondness to thy boy—
It is the thought that that dear face—
Oh, bitter, bitter pain!—
Is blotted out through time and space
For ever from my brain!
My mother, darling, lay my head