Evening at Home

Red wine drank I with my father,Which the old man poured like rain;Full of kindness, full of loving,Once I blessed him—and again.

Long, too long had I been absent,Years since I my sire had seen;Age the old man's brow had furrowed,And we talked of what had been.

Talked of all my strange adventures—Weather-beatings, wanderings—Theatres and men and music,And a thousand different things.

Then he sets my "work" before me,"Chop the logs!" good man! the pastWas so blended with the present—Earliest habits linger last.

"Well! it was a vile existence,You were shamefully misused"—So I sit and hear in silenceMy poor theatre abused.

"You were ragged—you were hungry—Ah! I see it on your brow;Tell me—tell me how you bore it,So much suffering—tell me how."

Then I laughed and joked—my languageHiding half my thoughts the while,Smiled upon his inexperience—He did not return the smile.

Then I sang a jolly ditty,Sang a ditty of mine own,And he set my heart a-dancingWhen he cried, "Well done! well done!"

Then I said, "And will you listen,Verse of mine while I rehearse!"But the old man shrugged his shoulders—"I don't know the use of verse."

Should I wonder? his the trainingTo toil on from day to day;'Twas not learning, but hard labourThat had made his tresses grey.

When the flask of wine was emptied,I snatched up a pen to keepRecord of a passing fancy,And the old man—fell asleep.

Then my mother entered, askingHundred, thousand questions then;"This and that and t'other tell me—Fling away that dirty pen."

And I listened to my mother'sHundred, thousand questionings,Asking, answering one another'sTalk of women, men, and things.

And I thought—the thought was dearerThan the loudest sounds of mirth;Oh! I have the dearest mother—Dearest mother on the earth!