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| A WANDERING youth with a cane in his hand | |
| Comes home again from a foreign land. | |
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| His hair is dusty, his face is brown; | |
| Who will know him first in the little town? | |
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| He enters the town by the ancient gate. | 5 |
| At the toll-bar leans a former mate: | |
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| The publican once was a cherished friend, | |
| Gay hours at the tavern they used to spend. | |
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| But see, his old comrade knows him not: | |
| His face is so sunburnt that he is forgot. | 10 |
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| The youth wanders on with a greeting fleet, | |
| And shakes off the dust from his tired feet. | |
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| From a window his love looks with gentle eyes. | |
| “Be welcome, oh, loveliest maiden!” he cries. | |
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| See, even the maiden knows him not: | 15 |
| His face is so sunburnt that he is forgot. | |
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| So on he is strolling across the town: | |
| A tear gleams bright on his cheek so brown. | |
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| There totters his mother from the church-door. | |
| “God bless you!” he says, and nothing more. | 20 |
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| But see, his old mother is sobbing with joy: | |
| “My son!”—And she sinks on the breast of her boy. | |
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| No matter how sunburnt his face has grown, | |
| By a mother’s eye he is straightway known. | |
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