ROM the pleasant paths I used to tread Full many a mile away, I dream of the rocks of old White Head, And the billows of Casco Bay. I sit once more on the island beach, Where the waves dash glad and high, And listen again their mystic speech, As the murmurous ranks go by; While, lying here on my tiresome bed, I cheat the dreary clay By fondly picturing old White Head And the waters of Casco Bay.
Beyond it the laden ships go out, Out into the open sea, To battle with danger, and storm, and doubt, And the ocean's treachery; And the homeward vessels which long have sped Through tempest, and spray, and foam,Catch first a glimmer of old White Head, And are sure they are almost home; And many a homesick tear is shed By wanderers miles away, As memory whispers of old White Head, And the islands of Casco Bay,
Ah, rarest mosses that ever were seen Grow brightly on old White Head; Orange, and russet, and emerald green Wide over the rocks are spread; And when the sweet June sunlight shines, The gossiping zephyr tells Where ruby and golden columbines Are swinging their myriad bells. Ah, thus, as I lie on my tiresome bed, I cheat the dreary day By summer pictures of old White Head,And the billows of Casco Bay.
Did I forget? It is winter now On the islands and old White Head. The snow lies deep on the cliff's high brow, And the lichens and blooms are dead;Under the ice, with sob and sigh, The prisoned billows heave, And the clouds hang dark, and the sea-birds cry, And the winds complain and grieve,—Yet, lying here on my tiresome bed, It cheers me to think alway That the summer is shining on old White Head, And the islands of Casco Bay!
ROM the pleasant paths I used to tread Full many a mile away, I dream of the rocks of old White Head, And the billows of Casco Bay. I sit once more on the island beach, Where the waves dash glad and high, And listen again their mystic speech, As the murmurous ranks go by; While, lying here on my tiresome bed, I cheat the dreary clay By fondly picturing old White Head And the waters of Casco Bay. 
ROM the pleasant paths I used to tread Full many a mile away, I dream of the rocks of old White Head, And the billows of Casco Bay. I sit once more on the island beach, Where the waves dash glad and high, And listen again their mystic speech, As the murmurous ranks go by; While, lying here on my tiresome bed, I cheat the dreary clay By fondly picturing old White Head And the waters of Casco Bay. 