Poems (Ford)/The Songs of Home

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THE SONGS OF HOME.
Come, sister, sit by my weary couch As the day's bright cheek grows pale,And sing me one of the sweet old songs We loved in our native vale;The present floats like a dream away, And thoughts of the past will come;Fond memories cling round the vanished days— Oh, sing me a song of home.
The scenes we loved in our childhood days, When life was so bright and fair,Ere Time's rude pencil on heart or brow Had written a line of care,Shine brightly in memory's magic glass, Though far from them now we roam, ​As over the lonely heart-strings creep The strains of a song of home.
The ancient forests, in changing robes, And the guardian mountains grand,That tower in haughty majesty O'er the breast of our native land,The sunny valleys, the lake's green shore, Where we often used to roam,All rise in beauty before me now, As I list to the songs of home.
What happy evenings long gone by Do those dear old songs recall,When the echoes of glad voices rang From our cheerful cottage wall;Loved faces far from our sight to-night, Or moldering in the tomb,Come back with their old, familiar smiles, Called forth by the songs of home.
The chilling grasp of death's icy hand Is closing around my heart,And here alone in a stranger land In sorrow we're doomed to part;Far from the graves where our kindred sleep They 'll hollow my lonely tomb,Yet my heart goes back to the dear old days— Oh, sing me a song of home.
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When life's pale lamp has at last gone out, And its joys and woes have flown,May we hear the angel choirs that sing Around the eternal throne;And, oh, how sweet in those joyous strains Will the glad notes be that comeFrom well loved voices that long ago Sang the dear old songs of home.

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