O WELL I love the Spring,
— When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows;
And well I love the Summer,
— And the coming of the rose;
But dearer are the changing leaf,
— And the year upon the wane,
For O, they bring the blessed time
— That brings him home again.

November may be dreary,
— December's days may be
As full of gloom to others
— As once they were to me;
But O, to hear the tempest
— Beat loud against the pane!
For the roaring wind and the blessed time
— That brings him home again.