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The Old Home
When I long for sainted memories
Like angel troops they come,
If I fold my arms and ponder
On the old, old home.
The heart hath many palpages,
Through which the feelings roam,
But it middle aisle is sacred
To the old, old home.
Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home
I’ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.
Where infancy was sheltered,
Like rosebuds from the blast;
Where boyhood’ brief elysian,
In joyousness was past.
To that bright spot forever.
As to some hallowed dome;
Life’s pilgrim binds his visions
Tis’ his old, old home.
Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home
I’ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.
A father sat how proudly
By the bright hearthstone’s says,
And told his children stories,
Of his early Manhood days:
While one soft eye was beaming -
From child to child ‘twould roam;
Thus a mother counted her treasures
In the Old, Old home.
Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home
I’ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.
The birthday gifts and festivals,
The blended Vesper hymn,
But one dear one was swelling it
Is with the Seraphim.
The fonds good night of bedtime -
How quiet sleep woul dcome,
And fold us all together,
In the Old, Old home.
Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home
I’ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.
Like a wreath of scented flowers,
Close intertwined each heart,
But time and change in concert,
Have blown that wreath apart.
Yes fondly cherished memories,
Like Angels ever come
If I fold my arms and ponder
On the Old, Old home.
Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home
I’ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.
August 1861
By John T. Tropell
