Come now, sing me the song our mother
Used to sing us long, long ago.
Not regretting hopes now smothered,
I'll sing the descant that I know.
It's just because the tune's familiar
That my heart and soul so rejoice,
Hearing as if from the home of our family
The delicate tremor of her voice.
Come now, sing and I'll think, as I listen,
Of another song matching yours.
If I half-close my eyes while you're singing
Mother's dear features I see once more.
Come now, sing. What I find so heartening
Is the love that stirs not only me -
Love of the gate to the autumn garden,
Of the fallen leaves of the rowan-tree.
Come now, sing and the past I'll remember,
And here no longer I'll sulk in pain.
Such a relief it is, and pleasure,
Seeing mother and her brood hens again.
In mist and dewfall I came forever
To love the slim birches holding hands,
With thick-plaited golden tresses,
In sleeveless homespun sarafans.
And the reason my heart's unburdening
With the wine and song is that you
Seemed to me to be the birch-tree
That back home by the window grew.