At home, at home! the word rings
On and on, deep within my heart,
And causes me bitter suffering.
And yet, I got what I deserved;
Who told me to go off to foreign lands
And part from my beloved?

At home, at home, she is likely sitting right now
And pondering and spinning and weeping and bedewing
The golden flax upon her distaff;
The thread tears, she does not notice it,
Far down over her face flow
Her rich, blonde curls.

At home, at home! oh comfort yourself, love,
And do not weep until your eyes are bleared,
For parting is not shunning.
And if you are there and I am here,
My heart is with you all the time,
Though mountains and valleys divide us.

At home, at home! and when spring comes
When the valley garlands itself with violets
And all the buds burgeon:
Open, open your little chamber,
Your dearest nears, and wishes to bring
Sunshine to his little rose as well.