I'm growing old, I'm growing old,
My hair is ting'd with gray ;
In search of pleasure, fame, and gold,
I've worn my life away ;
And standing on a foreign shore,
I gaze o'er ocean's foam.
And ponder on the days of yore,
When we were young at home.

I see again, in Fancy's realm,
The homestead by the gorge,
And, down below the ivied elm,
I hear the roaring forge ;
While fondly on the hilla I gaze
O'er which we used to roam.
In buoyant youth's unclouded days.
When we were young at home.

I see again the old fireside,
Where tale, and dance, and tune.
Made winter's long dark ereniaga glide
Away from us too soon ;
And hear the old familiar lays
Come floating o'er the foam,
My siflters sang in bygone days,
When we were young at home.

And could I but recall youth's time.
Bring back its joys anew,
I would not leave my native clime
Such phantoms to pursue ;
For in a long and gay career.
Beyond the ocean's foam,
My heart has known no joys so dear,
Aa those it knew at home.