When you come home I’ll not be round
To welcome you.
They’ll take you to a grassy mound
So neat and new;
Where I’ll be sleeping–O so sound!
The ages through.
I’ll not be round to broom the hearth,
To feed the chicks;
And in the wee room of your birth
Your bed to fix;
Rose room that knew your baby mirth
Your tiny tricks.
I’ll not be round . . . The garden still
With bees will hum;
To cheerful you the throstle’s bill
Will not be dumb;
The rambler rose will overspill
When you will come.
Bird, bee and bloom, they’ll greet you all
With scented sound;
Yet though the joy of your footfall
Will thrill the ground
Your mother with her old grey shawl–
Will not be round.