Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

When business is done, and I home take my way,
To rest me at last from the cares of the day,
Fatigued—wearied out quite—what pleasure is there
In flinging me down in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
A friend I love well is my own easy chair.

From morning till evening—till night's coming down,
I'm busy at work without rest in the town,
Till body and brain no more labour can bear,
Till I thank God at home is my own easy chair;
Then my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How welcome to me is my own easy chair.

In winter, as entering I shake off the snow,
In the fender my slippers are toasting, I know;
And, fronting the bright blaze, I'm sure to see there,
In the full ruddy firelight, my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Still ready for me is my own easy chair.

What rest, when I'm quite to its comfort resign'd,
What gladness of ease in its old arms I find!
To be tired right out is a joy I declare,
But to taste the full rest of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What rest is like that in my own easy chair.

My bed is a blessing, for which God I bless,
But bed than one's own chair must comfort one less,
For, sleeping, one can't know how blest one is there,
The waking delight of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How I feel the full rest of my own easy chair.

If I with the crosses of life am perplex'd,
If with men and their doings I'm worried and vex'd,
In its quiet I learn soon to bear and forbear,
And peace comes to me in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
It whispers me peace, does my own easy chair.

But my chair's a confessor and counsellor too,
If a wrong I have done, or a wrong I would do,
Its quiet old voice not a failing will spare,
And wisdom I learn from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What preacher is like you, my own easy chair.

Round my chair, little faces, how dear! come and go,
To get kisses—ask questions—their lessons to show,
And to puzzle their father, though sage I look there,
As if all things I knew, in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Long may those faces throng round my own easy chair.

In my chair as I dream, there looks up from my knee
The face of an angel 'tis heaven to see,
Golden curls—azure eyes—baby's small voice is there,
Prattling up to my heart in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
God keep that small form by my own easy chair.

Then the boys, they are heard with their voices too high;
Harold's loud in assertion—Will's shrill in reply—
And my voice must be raised, calming down the storm there,
The lawgiver speaks from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Is the judge over stern in my own easy chair?

Then Katie, or May, as night grows in the room,
With the sweetness of some dear old tune fills the gloom,
As she plays, through my brain steals its feeling till there
I could dream night away in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What dreams come to me in my own easy chair!

Then rhymes come unbidden; as feeling grows strong,
Through head, lip, and pen, fancies hurry along,
And songs leap to birth, to some still voiceless air,
And a poet I seem in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
The muse loves me well in my own easy chair.

O Emma, my good, true, my own darling wife,
Through the worst cares of day how it gladdens my life
To think that at evening your face will be there,
Looking love to me stretch'd in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How dear comes that voice to my own easy chair.

What memories cling to it! what thoughts of delights
Of past Christmas eves and of gone New-Year's nights,
Of faces we see not—shall only see where
We shall go when we're missed from our own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Where they're gone, may I go from my own easy chair.

My gladness to gladden—my sorrow to cheer,
Still, old chair, be my friend while in life I am here,
Be my comforter still till all white is my hair,
Till death steals my form from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
One day we must part too, my own easy chair.