Gold Hill Daily News

THE OLD HOUSE FAR AWAY
The wild birds warble, the silvery rill
Sing cheerily round the spot,
And the peaceful shade of the purple hill
Falls dim on my mother's cot;
Its windows are low, and its thatch is low,
And its ancient walls are grey;
Oh! I see it! I love it! where'er I go,
The old house far away.

The little clock ticks on the parlor wall,
And the pet geranium grows rank and tall
Recording the passing hours;
With its brilliant scarlet flowers;
And the old straw chair so cosy and low,
Where mother sat knitting all day;
Oh! I see it! I love it! where'er I go,
The old house far away.

Dear mother! how plainly I see her now,
While the sunset resting upon her brow,
Reclining in that old arm chair,
That was once so smooth and fair;
With her crimpled border white as snow,
And her once dark hair now grey,
Oh! I see it! I love it! where'er I go,
In that old house far away.

Not all the treasures the world affords,
The riches of land and sea
Nor all the wealth of earth's proud lords,
Can blot from my memory
The roof that sheltered each dear, dear head,
And the humble floor of clay
Where the feet I loved were wont to tread,
In the old house far away.
—Dublin Journal.