Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold,
And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly o’er the wold;
I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to roam
When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home.
The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew;
Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew,
The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam
In the orchard ’neath the shadow of those distant hills of home.
The first white frost in the meadow will be shining there to-day
And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way;
There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when I come,
And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home.
