Poetry.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 46, 10 February 1894, Page 9

Poetry.

WHEH PHIL COMES HOME. Pather and mother are growing old. His eyes are dim, and her shoulders bowed j They have little to spare of silver or gold, They live apart from the busy crowd, And one like another their days go by— The days of the years that are fleeting fast; The grey clouds drift o’er the westering sky. And the tale of their life is a dream of the past. But ever as Saturday evening sheds Its after-glow-on the fair hillways, The hearth is swept and the board is spread. And cheei-y and bright is the fagot’s blaze, And mother steps briskly to and fro. And father smiles in the easy chair, While both the wrinkled old faces glow, fill the vanished youth seems blooming there.. On Saturday night, when Phil comes home. With the stir of the town in his eager pace. Their cares are light as the oeaded foam •Ihat ebbs from the shore .and leaves no trace ; They live in the joy of their boy’s young prime,, Their laughter wakes at his merry jest, And Saturday night is the blithest time The round week secs in the old home nest. —Selected*.