I HAVE a longing on me for my own land —
Oh, people of the mountains, let me be!
For the wide, flat meadows and the gray sand.
And the sound of the singing of the sea.

I have need to walk the long, level roads again
To watch the white sea-fog roll in,
To call out the weather to the fishermen
When the soft, white nights begin.

I would question how the bulkheads stand
When the high September tides run free;
I have a longing on me for my own land —
Oh, people of the mountains, let me be!