14
Glen-Echo Home.
I'm longing for the wild birds,
That earliest came in spring,
And on the pure sweet air trilled forth
Their richest offering—
Ah, nought of music can compare,
In hall or lofty dome,
With the sweet wild birds' singing there,
In our Glen-Echo Home.
That earliest came in spring,
And on the pure sweet air trilled forth
Their richest offering—
Ah, nought of music can compare,
In hall or lofty dome,
With the sweet wild birds' singing there,
In our Glen-Echo Home.
I'm picturing the home-charm
Of garden, field and tree,
Which, though a stranger heeds it not,
Makes paradise to me;
The sun elsewhere shines not so bright,
No flowers so sweetly bloom,
As those which toiling hands invite,
Round our Glen-Echo Home.
Of garden, field and tree,
Which, though a stranger heeds it not,
Makes paradise to me;
The sun elsewhere shines not so bright,
No flowers so sweetly bloom,
As those which toiling hands invite,
Round our Glen-Echo Home.
I'm dreaming of the future,
When all our wand'rings o'er,
We'll turn with gladsome steps, to greet
Our cottage home once more—
Allured by memory's softest voice,
With loving hearts we'll come,
And gather 'neath the sheltering roof
Of our Glen-Echo Home.
When all our wand'rings o'er,
We'll turn with gladsome steps, to greet
Our cottage home once more—
Allured by memory's softest voice,
With loving hearts we'll come,
And gather 'neath the sheltering roof
Of our Glen-Echo Home.
