There’s a dear old home in the val­ley,
It has stood there ma­ny long years,
’Twas the scene of joys and sor­rows,
’Twas the scene of smiles and tears;
We were rocked in the old-fa­shioned cra­dle,
Sung to sleep in the old rock­ing chair;
But the mo­ther who sang then so sweet­ly,
Sings to­day in the home ov­er there.

That vine-co­vered home, how I loved it,
With its low hang­ing porch, near the well;
O, to think once again of my child­hood,
Brings a thrill that my tongue can­not tell;
But the me­mo­ry dear­er than oth­er,
As I look o’er the years fraught with care;
Is the me­mo­ry of that pre­cious mo­ther,
As she sat in the old rock­ing chair.

How she watched o’er the flow­ers in the garden,
Trained the vines run­ning ov­er the wall,
Wreathing win­dow with bright morn­ing glories,
’Neath the great ma­ple tree shad­ing all;
But her work here on earth now is end­ed,
Nevermore will I hear her in pray­er;
Yet I know she is now with the Sav­ior,
And I’ll meet her at last ov­er there.