HOME, SWEET HOME – J.J.FLEMING, ALLEGHENY, PA., U.S.A.
I would love to be in Galway when the flowers begin to bloom,
And the hawthorn scents the air for miles around.
When the birds begin to warble their welcome to the spring
No sweeter spot on earth can e’er be found;
When Croagh Patrick starts to brighten and clad in verdant green,
I dream about its slopes and sadly moan;
As I listen to the Claddagh rippling onward to the sea,
I would love to be in Galway, “Home, Sweet Home”.
I would love to be in Galway when the tide breaks on the shore.
And the silver mists are rising from the sea.
When the summer sun in brightness lights the valleys all around,
And nature’s jewels are sparkling, I can see
The little old thatched cottage and the ivy creeping round
And the skylark thrilling in the vaulted dome:
Among quiet nooks and dells fairy music softly swells.
I would love to be in Galway. “Home, Sweet Home”.
I would love to be in Galway in the autumn of the year,
When the gentle sighing zephyrs sweep the vales;
And the turf fire burning brightly as the children cluster nightly
To listen to those dear old fairy tales.
Then my thoughts go home to mother and my home across the sea.
In dreams across Atlantic’s wave they roam.
I would love to be in Galway just to close my eyes and rest.
Oh, I would love to be in Galway,
“Home, Sweet Home.”
THE FAR CALL – JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS
The Galway roads are calling, calling to the Galway-born;
They can see the dew-wet hedges shining jeweled in the morn!
They can hear the heart-born laughter of each childhood-known gossoon,
And o’nights they hear the fiddles in a well remembered tune,
And the Galway voices call them where the Galway children play.
And their hearts turn back to Galway
Aye, from half the world away!
And the Devon roads are calling, calling to the Devon-born;
They can smell the English roses in the sweetness of the morn;
They can see the white winged fishers homing when the day is done,
On a sea all crimson glory form the setting Devon sun;
And the blue-eyed Devon lassies call them from the long ago,
And their hearts are sick for Devon when the sun is red and low.
And the Scottish hills are calling – call the Scottish banks and braes;
And the Holland dikes and lowlands;
and call loud Italian ways.
From wherever men were children,
North or South or East or West,
Comes the call to those who’ve wandered when their faltering limbs would rest,
It is not the home ways calling when the evening sun sinks low,
It is lost youth calling, calling; but they never seem to know.