Riley Farm-Rhymes

WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY

     The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
        And filled it is with plenty and to spare,—
     But we are lonely here in life's decline,
        Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
             We look across the gold
             Of the harvests, as of old—
        The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay
             But most we turn our gaze,
             As with eyes of other days,
        To the orchard where the children used to play.

     O from our life's full measure
     And rich hoard of worldly treasure
         We often turn our weary eyes away,
     And hand in hand we wander
     Down the old path winding yonder
        To the orchard where the children used to play

     Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
        The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:
     The grove's a paradise of singing birds-
        The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door
             Yet lonely, lonely still,
             Let us prosper as we will,
        Our old hearts seem so empty everyway—
             We can only through a mist
             See the faces we have kissed
        In the orchard where the children used to play.

     O from our life's full measure
     And rich hoard of worldly treasure
        We often turn our weary eyes away,
     And hand in hand we wander
     Down the old path winding yonder
        To the orchard where the children used to play.