We did not mint the winters then,

  Nor care how loud the wind might blow;

The snow might fall, and freeze again,

  The lowering clouds might come and go;

Our home was blithe, our hearts were free,

  Before my brother went to see.


But now my mother’s cheek grows white

  To hear the rising of the blast;

My father’s look has lost its light,

  And slow the stormy months go past.

Things are not as they used to be,

Before my brother went to see.


Yet, though the ocean wastes be wide

I know that Providence is there;

Nor can the winds and wave divide

  Our absent from His careless care.

Therefore, at times, it seems to me,

  ‘’My brother will come safe from sea.’’