When Memory, with gentle hand, br Has led me to that foreign land br Of childhood days, I long to be br Again the boy on bended knee, br With head a-bow, and drowsy smile br Hid in a mother's lap the while, br With tender touch and kindly care, br She bends above and combs my hair. br br Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares br Had paled it to the hue it wears, br Its tangled threads of amber light br Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, br That only knew the light caress br Of loving hands, or sudden press br Of kisses that were sifted there br The times when mother combed my hair. br br But its last gleams of gold have slipped br Away; and Sorrow's manuscript br Is fashioned of the snowy brow-- br So lined and underscored now br That you, to see it, scarce would guess br It e'er had felt the fond caress br Of loving lips, or known the care br Of those dear hands that combed my hair. br br . . . . . . . . br br I am so tired! Let me be br A moment at my mother's knee; br One moment--that I may forget br The trials waiting for me yet: br One moment free from every pain-- br O! Mother! Comb my hair again! br And I will, oh, so humbly bow, br For I've a wife that combs it now.