The Widow’s Home

Alas, my home is lonely,—
They’ve parted from my side;
My husband in the church yard’s laid,
My daughter is a bride.

She’s stood beside the altar,
And breath’d that solemn vow,
From which she may not falter,
Till life is ended now.

But, oh, my home is lonely,—
I miss them by the hearth;
When evening shadows gather ’round,
I miss their social mirth.

I miss the glances of the eye,
The old familiar tone,—
And feel indeed, the widow’s home
Is desolate and lone.

And when we gather round the board,
There’s each one’s vacant chair;
And, oh, I miss them every hour—
And miss them everywhere.

But still there must be changes,
While time is stealing by,
Alternate sun and shadow
Will flit across the sky.