Oh! wheresoe’er our feet may roam,
Still sacred is the hearth of home;
Whether beneath the princely dome,
Or peasant’s lowly roof it be,
For home the wanderer ever yearns;
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns,
Like to the wife of old, he turns
Ever the eyes of memory.
Back where his heart he offered first—
Back where his fond young hopes he nursed.