My devious steps have wandered far,
O’er lands of Eld beyond the seas.
Amid thine autumn fields I hear,
Prophet of rain, the whistling quail;
While from its sheaf the wheaten ear
Is beaten by the sounding flail.
In other climes this quiet home
Has risen star-like to my view,
When tired, dejected, and alone,
No friendly heart my sorrows knew.