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The Devonshire Yeoman's Home.
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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Devonshire Yeoman's Home.
Ten years ago to-day our wedding bells were rung,
When all along the winding lane wild roses hung;
And now the roses cluster on our own white walls,
And down the lane resound our merry children's calls.
There's sunshine on the moor and on the glittering sea,
And sunshine in our hearts as fresh and fair and free;
We would not change our lot for London gold,
For home, our own sweet home, is sweeter now tenfold.
When all along the winding lane wild roses hung;
And now the roses cluster on our own white walls,
And down the lane resound our merry children's calls.
There's sunshine on the moor and on the glittering sea,
And sunshine in our hearts as fresh and fair and free;
We would not change our lot for London gold,
For home, our own sweet home, is sweeter now tenfold.
No city seasons come our pleasant year to mar;
The hay—the fruit—the harvest-time are merrier far,
For pictures and for music rare we need but look
Around our home, and listen to the grand old Book.
The hours flow on from morning prayer to evening praise,
With trust that lightens, love that brightens darkest days;
For though ten years have passed, love grows not old,
And home, our own dear home, is dearer now tenfold.
The hay—the fruit—the harvest-time are merrier far,
For pictures and for music rare we need but look
Around our home, and listen to the grand old Book.
The hours flow on from morning prayer to evening praise,
With trust that lightens, love that brightens darkest days;
For though ten years have passed, love grows not old,
And home, our own dear home, is dearer now tenfold.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |