He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been
there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her
throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty
note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and
dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't
come.
He little knew the gladness that his presence would have
made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never would have
stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he couldn't get
away.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were
pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to
think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it
might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to
see.
He didn't think about it -- I'll not say he didn't care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been
there.
Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll
be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you
care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him
glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish
you had.
Just sit down and write a letter -- it will make their heart
strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness -- if you'll tell them that
you'll come.