Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there s no place like home;2 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which sought through the world is neer met with elsewhere.
An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain, Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again; The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, Sweet Home. (From the opera of Clari, the Maid of Milan.)
The cold winds swept the mountain-height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child: As through the drifting snows she pressd, The babe was sleeping on her breast.