I could be quiet there at night
  Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed, and loth to leave
  The tickling clock and shining delph.

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
  And roads where there's never a house or bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
  And the crying wind and the lonesome hush.

And I am praying to God on high,
  And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house—a house of my own—
  Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

I've borne full many a sorrow, I've suffered many a loss—
But now, with a strange, new anguish, I carry this last dread cross;
For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever thy life befall,
The cross that our own hands fashion is the heaviest cross of all.

Heavy and hard I made it in the days of my fair strong youth,
Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, and closing my heart to truth.