I

       &nbsp One mile more is
       &nbsp Where your door is
       &nbsp       &nbsp Mother mine! -
       &nbsp Harvest's coming,
       &nbsp Mills are strumming,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Apples fine,
And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

       &nbsp Yet, not viewing
       &nbsp What's a-doing
       &nbsp       &nbsp Here around
       &nbsp Is it thrills me,
       &nbsp And so fills me
       &nbsp       &nbsp That I bound
Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

       &nbsp Tremble not now
       &nbsp At your lot now,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Silly soul!
       &nbsp Hosts have sped them
       &nbsp Quick to wed them,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Great and small,
Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.
IV

       &nbsp Yet I wonder,
       &nbsp Will it sunder
       &nbsp       &nbsp Her from me?
       &nbsp Will she guess that
       &nbsp I said "Yes,"—that
       &nbsp       &nbsp His I'd be,
Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

       &nbsp Old brown gable,
       &nbsp Granary, stable,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Here you are!
       &nbsp O my mother,
       &nbsp Can another
       &nbsp       &nbsp Ever bar
Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?