In our home in the West, on the edge of the mesa,

When our day’s work is done, and the voices are still,

Comes faintly the scent of the lilacs of Shawmont

We knew in our youth, at the house on the hill.

Back to those halls, now so silent and empty,

Where voices of children once merrily rang;

To those dear dead windows still facing the garden,

Where the woodthrush, the robin and oriole sang.

Back to the solemn old bell in the tree forks,

Which summoned us home to the noonday repast;

Whose music had rung in the morning of centuries,

And yet was as sweet as the day it was cast.

From our home on the mesa we still hear it calling,

Long, long is the journey, o’er mountain and plain;

But it’s only in memory—past to the present—

And only in fancy we hear it again.

The scent of the lilacs, the voices of children;

The chirp of the tree-toad, the song of the stream;

The path through the woods, where as lovers we wandered,

Confusingly call like a voice in a dream.

Call to us here in our home on the mesa,

From out the dear past in the house on the hill,

And in fancy we dwell in the home by the Schuylkill,

When our day’s work is done and the voices are still.