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
The house is still and sad,
As though it grieves and grieves For many a lass and lad.
The cushat doves
All day in the still weather;
Where once were nine or
But two keep house together.
