Found at a genealogy web site:

HOME
George Horton

The prince rode up to the palace gates
And his eyes with tears are dim,
For he thinks of the beggar maiden sweet
Who never may wed with him,
For home is where the heart is,
In dwelling great or small,
And there's many a splendid palace
That's never a home at all.

The yeoman comes to his little cot
With a song when day is done,
For his dearie is standing in the door
And his children to meet him run,
For home is where the heart is,
In dwelling great or small,
And there's many a stately mansion
That's never a home at all.

Could I but live with my own sweetheart
In a hut with sanded floor,
I'd be richer far than a loveless man
With fame and a golden store.
For home is where the heart is.
In dwelling great or small,
And a cottage lighted by lovelight
Is the dearest home of all.

[A version of this appears in The Speaker, a quarterly magazine from 1910-11.]