Sailor Son

Sailor Son

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.