It's weary lying here,
While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,
And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,
When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom—
Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are—
So far away, so far!
They say that I shall die—
And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:
But oh! my red-roofed village—I should die with more content
Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,
And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,
For one who comes no more.