The Old, Old Call

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Apr 25, 1907

The Old, Old Call

It's not myself I'm grieving for, it's not that I'm complaining (He's a good man, is Michael, and I've never felt his frown), But there's sorrow beating on me, like a long day's raining, For the little wrinkled face of her I left in Kerrydown.

It's just herself I'm longing for, herself and no other — Do you mind the morns we walked to church when all the fields were green? 'Twas I that pinned your kerchief, O me mother, mother, mother. The wide seas, the cruel seas, and half the world between.

It's the man's part to say the word, the wife's to up and follow (It's a fair land we've come to, and there's plenty here for all); It's not the homesick longing that lures me like a swallow, But the one voice across the world that draws me to its call.

It's just herself I'm longing for, herself and no other — Do you mind the tales you told me when the turf was blazing bright? Me head upon your shoulder, O me mother, mother, mother. The broad seas between us and yourself alone to-night.

There's decent neighbors all about, there's coming and there's going; It's kind souls will be about me when the little one is here; But it's her word that I'm wanting, her to comfort I'd be knowing, And her blessing on the two of us to drive away the fear.

It's just herself I'm longing for, herself and no other — Do you mind the soft spring mornings when you stitched the wedding gown? The little careful stitches, O me mother, mother, mother. Meself beyond the broad seas, and you in Kerrydown.

— Toronto Mail and Empire.