To The Same, When Away From Home - Poem by Thomas Cowherd
Oh, when will my beloved come
To her own home again?
Surely it will not be my doom
To miss her always in each room,
And of her loss complain.
Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home,
And ask why she's not here;
And I in quest of her would roam,
But fear to miss her much-loved form,
Which I would hope is near.
Yet I would not impatient be;
Thou art on Mother tending.
Thy love to her I like to see.
It will not lessen mine to thee,
Until my life is ending.
And should'st thou stay another week,
A month, or even a year-
Thy conduct past would loudly speak
Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek,
And say I've naught to fear.
Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done
All that thy mother needed;
Yet just remember there is one
Who will be sadly woe-begone,
His loneliness unheeded.
For well I know that such a wife
Is better far than gold;
And all the joys of bachelor life,
However free from care and strife,
On my mind take no hold.
Just now her brother brings me word
That I must go and see her.
For all the joys this will afford
May I be thankful to the Lord,
And go from care to free her.
Within an hour I see her face
Bedecked with smiles to greet me,
But yet she seems in woeful case,
For marks of toothache I can trace
As she comes forth to meet me.
We spend the night with th' dear old folk,
The moments quickly fly,
While we link-armed start on a walk,
But soon return to sing and talk-
The fire all sitting by.
Upon the morrow then return
To home, 'sweet home,' again.
Our hearts afresh with love do burn,
As we at hand our house discern,
And all it does contain.
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