The hut half hidden in the hills, The grazing herds along the way,Though plenty marks the swelling fields, There's not the wealth of home to me.
The lingering sunlight on the height, The ever gurgling, singing rills,And far below, in falling night, The endless stretch of purpling hills.
The toiler driving at his plough, The farmer working on the plain,And what is all of this to me? O back to love and home again!
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