CHANGE.

There's a little house by an orchard side Where the Spring wears pink and white; There's a garden with pansies and London pride, And a bush of lad's delight. Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen As trim as a garden can be, And the grass of the orchard is much more green Than most of the grass you see.

There used to be always a mother's smile And a father's face at the door, When one clambered over the orchard stile, So glad to be home once more. But now I never go by that way, For when I was there of late, A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, And a stranger leaned on the gate.