The barn by the orchard, and spring by the rill;

No spot upon earth which I so much covet,

As that where our Cottage once stood on the hill.

The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage,

The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill.

Beside its broad hearth-stone, at evening, I’ve listened

The tale that my grandfather told of the wars;

He’d speak of his battles, while tears his eyes glistened,

And prove what he stated, by showing his scars!

’Twas then that my young heart beat high for the glory