| |
| NO more for him the morning winds | |
| Will blow fleet shadows o’er the downs, | |
| No more for him the sunset-red | |
| Will deepen o’er the Western towns. | |
| |
| His patient hands no more may wrest | 5 |
| Scant profit from the barren soil, | |
| No more his tired feet may tread | |
| The paths that marked his daily toil. | |
| |
| The horse his kindly voice controlled | |
| (By loving tendance made his own) | 10 |
| Will chafe beneath a stranger’s touch | |
| And wonder at a stranger’s tone. | |
| |
| Labour is prayer and God is love, | |
| And when he sought his daily task | |
| Be sure that in the eastern light | 15 |
| He, silent, gained what others ask. | |
| |
| Be sure that in the Western sun | |
| His evening prayers were mutely said, | |
| And when the long night came at last | |
| Faith comforted his dying bed. | 20 |
| |
| Confident as a child that turns, | |
| When tired, on a lonely road, | |
| To nestle on his father’s arm, | |
| Feeling in love a sure abode, | |
| |
| So dwelled he in his Maker’s care, | 25 |
| Resigned no longer here to roam, | |
| And when he bade his friend farewell | |
| Said: ‘Matey, I am going Home.’ | |
| |
| He loved his wife, he reared his brood, | |
| A quiet, steadfast Englishman, | 30 |
| A loyal worker firm in faith,— | |
| Better the record ye who can! | |
| |
| And when for us the wild down winds | |
| Blend dully with the wistful foam, | |
| May we no greater trouble feel | 35 |
| Than ‘Matey, I am going Home.’ | |
| |
