The house where I was born, Where I was young and gay, Grows old amid its corn, Amid its scented hay. Moan of the cushat dove, In silence rich and deep; The old head I love Nods to its quiet sleep. Where once were nine and ten Now two keep house together; The doves moan and complain All day in the still weather. What wind, bitter and great, Has swept the country's face, Altered, made desolate The heart-remembered place? What wind, bitter and wild, Has swept the towering trees Beneath whose shade a child Long since gathered heartease? Under the golden eaves The house is still and sad, As though it grieves and grieves For many a lass and lad. The cushat doves complain All day in the still weather; Where once were nine or ten But two keep house together. |