It was just outside of the village,
In a cool, sequestered nook,
On the right was the murmuring forest,
On the left was the babbling brook.
Behind, the o’ershadowing mountain
Reared its gray old head to the sky,
While before it, the widening valley
Stretched out like a sea to the eye.
’Twas a rare, sweet spot, and a lovely
As ever this fair world knew;
There spring came earliest always,
And summer the latest withdrew.
Day reluctantly left it at evening,
And hastened to greet it at dawn,
And stars, birds, and flowers loved to visit
The place where my mother was born.