A WAY on my native mountains
How sweet the balmy breeze!
It has kissed the clear cool fountains,
And fanned the silver seas;
It stole the breath of the flowers
In every nook and dell,
And touched the fragrant honey
The bee had in his cell.

It got the smell of the clover
Down by the river side,
And incense from the heather bloom—
The mountains' crown of pride.
And oh! to drink its perfumed breath,
So fragrant, pure, and free,
As once it came, in days gone by,
With health and joy to me.


On my own dear native mountains
The breeze is balmy still;
It always has the freshness
Of fountain, sea, and rill.
But it cannot give the gladness
To me that once it gave,
For it bears the smell of the flowerets
That bloom upon the grave.

And alas! to me how changed
Its once gay minstrelsy!
Of old its songs were only
Of joyousness and glee;
But now so weird its wailings,
So sad its voices come,
They seem but solemn dirges
That echo from the tomb.