When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,
Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.
She sees no rainbow in the sky,
But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.
But God, who comforts want and age,
Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.