quote · Legacy record

Not there, not there! Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;— Little reck I of the bright, blue sky, And the stream that floweth so murmuringly, And the bending boughs, and the breezy air— Not there, good friends, not there! In the city churchyard, where the grass Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray Of that self-same sun doth find its way Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass— Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng, And the clatter of wheels as they rush along— Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry, Or the busy tramp of the passer-by, Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air— Good friends, let it be there! I am old, my friends—I am very old— Fourscore and five—and bitter cold Were that air on the hill-side far away; Eighty full years, content, I trow, Have I lived in the home where ye see me now, And trod those dark streets day by day, Till my soul doth love them; I love them all, Each battered pavement, and blackened wall, Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me They are all comely and fair to see— They have old faces—each one doth tell A tale of its own, that doth like me well, Sad or merry, as it may be, From the quaint old book of my history. And, friends, when this weary pain is past, Fain would I lay me to rest at last In their very midst; full sure am I, How dark soever be earth and sky, I shall sleep softly—I shall know That the things I loved so here below Are about me still—so never care That my last home looketh all bleak and bare— Good friends, let it be there!

Not there, not there! Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;— Little reck I of the bright, blue sky, And the stream that floweth so murmuringly, And the bending boughs, and the breezy air— Not there, good friends, not there! In the city churchyard, where the grass Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray Of that self-same sun doth find its way Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass— Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng, And the clatter of wheels as they rush along— Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry, Or the busy tramp of the passer-by, Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air— Good friends, let it be there! I am old, my friends—I am very old— Fourscore and five—and bitter cold Were that air on the hill-side far away; Eighty full years, content, I trow, Have I lived in the home where ye see me now, And trod those dark streets day by day, Till my soul doth love them; I love them all, Each battered pavement, and blackened wall, Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me They are all comely and fair to see— They have old faces—each one doth tell A tale of its own, that doth like me well, Sad or merry, as it may be, From the quaint old book of my history. And, friends, when this weary pain is past, Fain would I lay me to rest at last In their very midst; full sure am I, How dark soever be earth and sky, I shall sleep softly—I shall know That the things I loved so here below Are about me still—so never care That my last home looketh all bleak and bare— Good friends, let it be there!

In print by 1921 AD · modern

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.