Grandmother sits in her easy chair
Softly humming some old-time air;
And as she sings, her needles keep pace
With the smiles that flit o'er her wrinkled face;
While the fire-light flickers, and fades away,
And comes again like the breaking day.
From morning till evening she knits and sings,
While ever the pendulum tireless swings
The moments around, with its tick and stroke,
Nor hastes for the festal, nor lags for the yoke.
And grandmother never repines at her fate
Of being the last at the "Crystal Gate."
Husband, and daughters, and sons all there,
Wearing the "crown and the garments fair"
Singing the songs that will never tire,
And swelling the chorus of heaven's choir;
But patiently, hopefully, bides the time
That shall bring her at last to a fairer clime.
Grandmother's chair will be vacant soon,
For the rays of life slant far past noon;
But yonder in heaven she'll sing again,
Joining the evermore glad refrain,
Wearing the "crown" and the "garments fair,"
While we mournfully stand by her vacant chair.