The whirling fields wide sown with grain,The rugged hills and limpid streams,The woodland haunts as wrought of dreams,But oh, there's not the joy of home.
The mountains bonded in the clouds,The hazy distance I from thee,The peaceful ways and winding roads,There's not the rest of home to me.
The river, placid, dull and grey,The curling mist upon the sand,And to the leaward, and away,The drifting depths of shadowland.
The storming ocean and its roar,The white gull breasting wave and foam,The rocking boats along the shore,But oh, there's not the joy of home.
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!
