New England Religious Herald

TAKE ME HOME TO DIE.

This land is very bright, mother,
The flowers are very fair,
There's magic in the orange groves,
And fragrance in the air;
But take me to my dear old home,
Where the brook goes babbling by,
Let us go back again, mother!
Oh! Take me home to die!

Let my father's hand but rest, mother!
In blessings on my head,
Let my brothers and my sister dear
Throng around my bed;
Oh! let me feel that loved ones near
Receive my parting breath,
When I bid you all good night, mother!
And sleep the sleep of death.

Then take me to the play ground,
Where I played in childhood's morn,
Oh! lay me on thy own dear cot
In the room where I was born;
These Southern flowers are fairer,
And the birds have gayer tone,
And yet I pine, once more to see
My own dear childhood's home.

These flowers their sweetest sweets afford,
I scent their fragrant breath,
But ere they bloom again, mother!
I shall be cold in death.

Then take me to my early home,
No roses are so dear
As those that bloom upon the bush
To your old room so near.

It will be blooming soon, mother!
Then come—oh! let me go!
Give me once more its roses
Before you lay me low

You'll lay them on my grave, mother!
Say! mother! will you not?
You'll lay me by the mossy bank
I've often told the spot.

'Tis close beside the church, mother!
And when you kneel to pray,
I'll listen to your words, mother!
Though I am far away:

You must not weep for me, mother!
For I shall happy be,
And though I cannot stay with you,
Yet you shall come to me.

I care not for these birds, mother!
But there's a bird at home,
It is a wild-wood robin;
Its song so soft and sweet its tone;
It builds its nest upon the tree
That swings before the door,
Mother! oh! I sadly fear
I ne'er shall hear it more,

Dear mother, I am weeping,
I cannot stop the tears,
They're swelling at the thought of home,
And of my early years;
But I am getting faint, mother!
Oh! take me to your breast
And let me feel your lips, mother!
But on my forehead prest,

There's dimness on my sight, mother!
I cannot get my breath:
Is it your sobs I hear, mother!
Oh! tell me! is this death?

You'll tell my father how I yearned
Once more to see him near,
You'll kiss my sisters each for me,
They will forget, I fear.

You'll tell my little brothers dear,
I have gone up on high.
And if they are good children here,
They'll see me when they die.

I feel I'm going now, mother!
One kiss—before we part,
I can't go home to die, mother!
But my home is in thy heart!