Hurry now, my boy, hurry now- come home!
That sultry sun has stretched and now grows ill,
That gem-filled sky, a bright pox-stricken dome
Now pains you wandering lads with its chill.
It's made you late once more against my will.
That wind, she howls more than your mother's worst
Though spins the moor and more and, too, our mill.
That which you brave, whose chilling doom you durst.
Worry that will one day have your father's heart burst.
We're waiting for you, despite your grey stone
We'll not bar you, still open is our door
Still warm, our hearts, though cold has the hearth grown
And still you've many uncompleted chore!
Your sisters slaved, and your hard work they bore;
Though they, too, left us in a different way.
By time and their own little ones made sore.
Surely more so we wished that you would stay;
Or perhaps at least to venture out in warm May!
At least not like that winter night-
Where you ventured out of our sight;
Beyond our eye and the hearth's light,
Into the forest cold and white.
This time, I think, we'll wait some more
And leave open for you our door
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