Go Home, Go Home


By Robert Leighton


It is closing hour–I will work no more.
Now time is my own, since my work is o’er.
I hear the laugh of the merry soul,
And long to join at the smoking bowl:
I see the pots of sparkling beer,
And long to dip my lips in their foam:
But a little song rings in my ear,
And its burden is, “Go home, go home.”

‘Tis a little song, but full of sense–
The cream of deep experience.
It bothers not with philosophy,
And gives no reason how or why.
It tells what we know, but seldom note–
That we never repented of going home;
And with a lark’s untiring throat,
It sings, “Go home, O do go home!”

I may not heed that little strain–
For oft it sings to me in vain:
But I ne’er was deaf to its pleading yet,
And pass’d untroubled with regret.
O would my heart had aye been strong,
And shunn’d the snares that o’er us come,
And listen’d to the little song,
Whose burden is, “Go home, go home!”

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