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22
Here, my mother, we can stay
With thee, in this pleasant room;
Who would ask abroad to play,
When so cheerful is their home?
Soft the song of summer bird,
Sweet the breath of summer flower,
But a kind, a loving word
Comes with sweeter, softer power.
Mother, when thy loving voice
Checks or cheers we will obey,
And be silent, or rejoice
Through this stormy, gloomy day.
And when evening shades appear,
Brighter still will glow our hearth,
Then our father will be here,
And his smile will join our mirth.
