RECOLLECTIONS OF HOME.
By Patrick Parker.
It's often in fancy I revisit my home
Far o'er the wide rolling sea.
There is no place on earth, wherever I roam,
Like the cottage that first sheltered met
It's white gable ends in my visions I see:
Though twenty long years have passed
Since I played 'neath the shade of the hawthorn tree,
And fancied those pleasures would last.
At morn we plucked the wild rose from the bush;
Bow enchanting was the cuckoo in the dell.
And I listened with rapture to the song of the thrush,
As he sat on his perch by the well.
At eve when the sun showed my shadow at best,
I wore grandfather's hat to look tall;
I would watch the cawing rooks as they flew to their nests.
While the echo would answer my call.
Though time has elapsed, my heart is not frail;
I will yet steer my hark o'er the main,
Where the green flag of freedom will fly to the breeze;
I will see my loved cottage again!