The whistling rustic tending cows,
Would keep in pastures near,
And half the busy villagers
Lean from their doors to hear.
And from the time the robin came
And made the hedges bright,
Until the stubble yellow grew,
He never miss’d a night.
Chorus.—The hammer’s stroke on the anvil, &c.
Over the Mountain.
Over the mountain wave,
See where they come;
Storm cloud and wintry wind
Welcome them home;
Yet where the sounding gale
Howls to the sea,
There their song peals along
Deep-toned and free.
Chorus.—Pilgrims and wanderers.
Hither we come;
Where the free dare to be,
This is our home.
England hath sunny dales,
Dearly they bloom;
Scotia hath heather hills,
Sweet their perfume;
Yet through the wilderness
Cheerful we stray,
Native land, native land,
Home far away!
Chorus.—Pilgrims and wanderers, &c.
Dim grew the forest path,
Onward they trod;
Firm beat their noble hearts,
Trusting in God;
Gray men and blooming maids,
High rose their song,
Hear it sweep clear and deep,
Ever along.