Its carol so sweet as it’s floating along,
It seems the Creator to praise in its song.
With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim,
“God made the country,”—let the pride of man claim
The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes,
But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes.
The scenery around us is lovely to view,
It charmed when a child, and at three-score charms too.
Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers,
And the town, with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours.