Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/192
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156
The Mother.
My hand shakes—but bring me
That pure honeycomb,
Now nothing shall vex me,
My boy has come home!
That pure honeycomb,
Now nothing shall vex me,
My boy has come home!
Now twine on the doorway
Pale wreaths of jasmine,
And tell all the village
His ship has come in.
How lucky my wheat-bread
Was baked yester night;
He loves the brown home-loaf,
And this is so light.
Now heap up wild berries
As black as the sloe—
I never must tell him
I’ve wept for him so!
Pale wreaths of jasmine,
And tell all the village
His ship has come in.
How lucky my wheat-bread
Was baked yester night;
He loves the brown home-loaf,
And this is so light.
Now heap up wild berries
As black as the sloe—
I never must tell him
I’ve wept for him so!
The girls will come running
To hear all the news,
The neighbours with nodding
And scraping of shoes.
The fiddler, the fifer,
Will play as they run,
The blind beggar, even,
Will welcome my son.
He smiles like his father
(I’ll sit there and think),
Oh, could he but see us—
It makes my heart sink.
But what is that?—“Mother!”
I heard some one call.
“Oh, Ronald, my first-born,
You’ve come after all!”
To hear all the news,
The neighbours with nodding
And scraping of shoes.
The fiddler, the fifer,
Will play as they run,
The blind beggar, even,
Will welcome my son.
He smiles like his father
(I’ll sit there and think),
Oh, could he but see us—
It makes my heart sink.
But what is that?—“Mother!”
I heard some one call.
“Oh, Ronald, my first-born,
You’ve come after all!”