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.