I'm growing old, I'm growing old,
My hair is ting'd with gray ;
In search of pleasure, fame, and gold,
I've worn my life away ;
And standing on a foreign shore,
I gaze o'er ocean's foam.
And ponder on the days of yore,
When we were young at home.
I see again, in Fancy's realm,
The homestead by the gorge,
And, down below the ivied elm,
I hear the roaring forge ;
While fondly on the hilla I gaze
O'er which we used to roam.
In buoyant youth's unclouded days.
When we were young at home.
I see again the old fireside,
Where tale, and dance, and tune.
Made winter's long dark ereniaga glide
Away from us too soon ;
And hear the old familiar lays
Come floating o'er the foam,
My siflters sang in bygone days,
When we were young at home.
And could I but recall youth's time.
Bring back its joys anew,
I would not leave my native clime
Such phantoms to pursue ;
For in a long and gay career.
Beyond the ocean's foam,
My heart has known no joys so dear,
Aa those it knew at home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem