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I've tied a ribbon in my hair just where the two roads meet.
I'm none so clever or so fair, but John must find me neat.
I've laid the china plates, no less, put posies on the board,
Brought damask linen from the press where it has long been stored,
Spared nothing,—long has he been gone in places far away—
He's coming home, my own guid-mon, he's coming home to-day!

His great arm chair, my rocker small, both hug the inglenook,
Here in their old familiar place I've laid his pipe and book;
And when the firelight's cheery song roars up the chimney wide,
And dusk comes creeping in the world we'll sit here side by side;
My hand he'll hold fast in his own, and ah! my heart will thrill—
When John and I are by our lone he is my lover still.

So warm, so soft, the shadows fall on us and our content,
The while I tell the guid-mon all that's happened since he went.
He's coming home, and all the while I work, or sing, or pray,
"He's coming home to-day!"