The mother-heart doth yearn at eventide,
And, wheresoe’er the straying ones may roam,
When even cometh on they all fare home.
’Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth hide;
In eager flights the birds wing to their nest,
While happy lambs and children miss the sun,
And to the folds do hurtle one by one,
As night doth gather slowly in the...