I love it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm chair.
I've treasured it long as a holy prize.
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bonds to my heart:
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey;
And I worshipp'd her when she smil'd
And turn'd from her bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With a quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;
And mem'ry flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm chair.

- Eliza Cook

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