Where she, the Bride, a Mother now,
Encircled round with sons and daughters,
Waits my congratulary bow
To greet her cottage woods and waters;
And thou art proving, as in youth,
By daily kindnesses, the truth
And wisdom of the Scottish rhyme—
“To make a happy fireside clime
For children and for wife,
Is the true pathos and sublime,”
And green and gold of Life.
From long-neglected garden-bowers
Come these, my songs’ memorial flowers,
With greetings from my heart, they come
To seek the shelter of thy home;
Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom,
And all unmeet for gorgeous room
Of “honor, love, obedience,
And troops of friends,” like thine.
I hope thou wilt not banish thence
These few and fading flowers of mine,
But let their theme be their defence,
The love, the joy, the frankincense,
And fragrance o’ Lang Syne.
