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!"