How bless't are they for whom, I trow
'Home' is the sweetest word they know.
Where, children on their mothers' knee
They learned to love and lovéd be;
Whereon they also learned to say
Their first sweet simple words, to pray.
'Tis where their fathers tried their best
The bitter outside world to wrest
From harming tender spirits where
All ills and fears lie waiting there.
Where evil's waiting there to snare
The simple soul that's unaware.
Thrice bless't are they to whom is given
In God's good time a mate to find,
Who's love shall prove was made in Heaven
To share all ills of frame and mind.
To found themselves a home from home
Where happy children are their own.
For if myself I evil be
That curse is ended not with me,
But propagates itself with power
On future simple heads to shower;
For generations up to five,
That evil on itself doth thrive.