There is an empty house
Beyond the lane,
And there no cat or mouse
Will come again;
The family is scattered far and wide
That there in by-gone years did reside.
Why does not someone come
And give it life?
‘Tis empty as a drum
Without a fife.
It stands with saddened windows, bleak and bare,
That on the tangled garden blankly stare.
Here once the children played,
The father worked,
The mother bonnags made
And no job shirked.
But now the only children hereabouts
Run quickly past with heedless laughs and shouts.
It seems as if it waits
The turn of key,
To nurse within its gates
But no-one ever comes to warm its bones;
It waits in vain, a yearning in its stones.
More years will pass it by;
It will decay.
Its roof will be the sky,
Its light the day.
And who, but I, will shed for it a tear?
I, too, will pass into another year.