Traditional & Folk Songs with lyrics, midis & Mp3
No Letters From Home

No Letters From Home

No Letters From Home
(Henry Clay Work)
A stranger lies ill, in a distant city,
With no letters from home!
The glances that meet him, in lieu of pity,
Are querying, "Why does he roam?"
     "Oh heed my request," says he, "else 'twere better
     I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
     Dismiss the physician and bring a letter,
     A flock of kind letters from home."

cho: "Oh, heed my request," says he,
     "Else 'twere better
     I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
     Dismiss the physician and bring a letter,
     A flock of kind letters from home.

Like messenger doves, from across the mountains,
Cream-tinted and golden and white,
Like clouds that haved sipp'd at the Eastern fountains
For this thirsty land to take flight;
     So come the dear missives, but ah! the stranger
     Receives none to lighten his gloom
     In this time of sickness, this hour of danger
     Not ever one letter from home.

He moans in his slumber, "Why did I ever
So far westwardly roam?
Oh must I lie down, must I sleep forever
WIth no loving letters from home?
     My bones you may bury where winds are lifting
     Pacific's broad billows in foam;
     Or there on Lone Mountain, where sands are drifting
     But first, bring a letter from home!"

"From the 'Golden Gate' up to the portals pearly,"
He murmurs,"Oh can it be far?
On the sunset domain, in the morn how early
Will glimmer the Orient Star?
     What light is this melting my shade-like fetters?
     What birds are thos circling the dome?
     Those messenger  doves are my long-sought letters
     My flock of kind letters from home."

Final choruses:
     "They heed my request," says he, "best of debtors
     Their favors are whit'ning the dome;
     Sweet messenger doves are my long sought letters
     My flock of kind letters from home."

     "Oh, heed my request," says he,
     "Else 'twere better
     I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
     Dismiss the physician and bring a letter,
     A flock of kind letters from home."

From Songs of Henry Clay Work, Work

                                                 apr96