My Home Among the Hills

'All around the dear old homestead lyin' there among the hills. MY HOME AMONG THE HILLS. In the fragrant, scented summer, when the evenin' breezes blow, An' the visions of the home-land to my mem'ry come and go, Then in dreams I see the mountains, an' the river clear and cool A dashin' and a dancin' through the deep, blue swimmin' pool; An' I hear the red-winged pecker, jist a peckin' all day long, An' the swayin', swishin' willers, low an' sweet as any song; — I can hear the robin's warble, an' the meadow lark's sweet thrills, All around the dear old homestead lyin' there among the hills. The fine old castle's made of logs, an' the roof is rather low, But I think it's nearer heaven than the highest roof I know; The rooms were not so plentiful, but it used to seem to me There was alius room for strangers; where we put 'em I can't see! 'There was alius room for strangers."

"Now, the Wasatch foothill-country's only with me in my dreams." I never kuew the dear home-scenes were really half so fair. An' that kind nature's masterpiece was spread out before me there, 'Till I saw no more the birches standin' guard along; the rills. An' I heard no more their whispers as they watched among: the hills. The nights were cool an' quiet, an' my sleep was sweet an' long:, For the creek kept up it's dronin', soft an' low as mother's song;, But the dawn would find me risin' when the dew -was on the flowers, An' the air was sweet as honey in the airly mornin' hours. Now, the Wasatch foothill-country's only with me in my dreams; An' no more I hear the murmur of the crystal mountain streams; But the roses in the bushes, hidin' there from greedy bills, I know are a noddin' to me, from my home among the hills. There's my mother, fond and lovin', with her hair all streaked with gray, An' I know she's ever prayin' for her son so far away; An' my father's proudly thinkin' of the man he thinks I'll be, When I've learned my little lesson over here across the sea. There are others waitin' for me— sisters, brothers an' the rest, An' their high-flown expectations make me do my level best. There'* another, not a sweetheart, all my dreams her dear face *lls. An' for me her pure, sweet presence makes a heaven of the hills. Belfast, Ireland. H. R. MERRILL. 'There are others waitin' for me — sisters, brothers an' the rest."