When you come home I`ll not be round To welcome you. They`ll take you to a grassy mound So neat and new; Where I`ll be sleeping—O so sound! The ages through. I`ll not be round to broom the hearth, To feed the chicks; And in the wee room of your birth Your bed to fix; Rose room that knew your baby mirth Your tiny tricks. I`ll not be round . . . The garden still With bees will hum; To cheerful you the throstle`s bill Will not be dumb; The rambler rose will overspill When you will come. Bird, bee and bloom, they`ll greet you all With scented sound; Yet though the joy of your footfall Will thrill the ground Your mother with her old grey shawl— Will not be round.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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