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Home of my youth! no more your sod,
By feet of mine shall e'er be trod;
A weary exile far I roam,
From the dear spot which was my home.
By feet of mine shall e'er be trod;
A weary exile far I roam,
From the dear spot which was my home.
No pleasure now your groves can give,
Since those I lov'd have ceased to live;
I'll seek the cold graves where they lie,
Then from thy shades for ever fly.
Since those I lov'd have ceased to live;
I'll seek the cold graves where they lie,
Then from thy shades for ever fly.
But ever, in your wood-walks green,
May spring's first flow'rets still be seen;
May plenty deck each hill and dell,
Home of my childhood! fare thee well!
May spring's first flow'rets still be seen;
May plenty deck each hill and dell,
Home of my childhood! fare thee well!
