An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,-

Give me them, and the peace of mind, dearer than all! Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!
John Howard Payne [1792-1852]

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME

THE sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home;

'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;

The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day.

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,

All merry, all happy and bright;

By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:— Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady,

O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door.

The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow, where all was delight;

The time has come when the darkeys have to part:-
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days and the troubles all will end,

In the field where the sugar-canes grow.
A few more days for to tote the weary load,-
No matter, 'twill never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road:-
Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady,

O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky home, far away.

Stephen Collins Foster [1826-1864]

THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME

WAY down upon de Suwanee Ribber,
Far, far away,

Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,

Dere's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation

Sadly I roam,

Still longing for de old plantation,

And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered

When I was young,

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder

Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes,

One dat I love,

Still sadly to my memory rushes,

No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming

All around de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming,

Down in my good old home?

Stephen Collins Foster [1826-1864]

HOME

O, FALMOUTH is a fine town with ships in the bay,
And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day;
I wish from my heart I was far away from here,
Sitting in my parlor and talking to my dear.
For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree
They're all growing green in the old countrie.

In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet

With her babe on her arm as she came down the street;
And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready
For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.
And it's home, dearie, home,-

O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;

And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king;

With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue

He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. And it's home, dearie, home,

O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west,
And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,

For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free,
And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie.
For it's home, dearie, home-it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree
They're all growing green in the old countrie.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

HOT WEATHER IN THE PLAINS-INDIA

FAR beyond the sky-line, where the steamers go, There's a cool, green country, there's the land I know; Where the gray mist rises from the hidden pool,

And the dew falls softly on the meadows cool.

When the exile's death has claimed me it is there my soul shall fly,

To the pleasant English country, when my time has come to

die;

Where the west wind on the uplands echoes back the sea

bird's cry

Oh! it's there my soul will hasten though it's here my bones must lie.

From the many temples, tinkling bells ring clear,

But a fairer music in my heart I hear—

Lilt of English skylark, plash of woodland streams,

Songs of thrush and blackbird fill my waking dreams.

In each pause from work and worry, it is there my thoughts will fly,

To the pleasant English country with the pearly, misty

sky

And the present's toil and trouble fade and cease and pass

me by

Oh! it's there I fain would wander, but it's here my bones must lie.

Hard and hot the sky spreads, one unchanging glare,
Far and wide the earth lies burnt and brown and bare,
Sunset brings no solace, night-time no redress,
Still the breathless silence mocks the land's distress.

So my thoughts recross the waters to the spring-times long

gone by,

Passed 'mid English woods and pastures, 'neath a softer, sweeter sky;

For when death shall end my exile, thither will my spirit fly

Oh! it's there my soul shall wander, though it's here my bones must lie.

E. H. Tipple [18

HEART'S CONTENT

"A SAIL! a sail! Oh, whence away,
And whither, o'er the foam?
Good brother mariners, we pray,
God speed you safely home!"
"Now wish us not so foul a wind,
Until the fair be spent;

For hearth and home we leave behind:
We sail for Heart's Content."

"For Heart's Content! And sail ye so,
With canvas flowing free?

But, pray you, tell us, if ye know,

Where may that harbor be?

For we that greet you, worn of time,
Wave-racked, and tempest-rent,

By sun and star, in every clime,

Have searched for Heart's Content.

"In every clime the world around,

The waste of waters o'er;
An El Dorado have we found,

That ne'er was found before.

The isles of spice, the lands of dawn,
Where East and West are blent-
All these our eyes have looked upon,
But where is Heart's Content?