These prairies glow with flowers,
These groves are tall and fair,
The sweet lay of the mocking bird
Rings in the morning air;
And yet I pine to see
My native hill once more,
And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp:
Beside its cottage door.
And he, for whom I left
My native hill and brook,
Alas, I sometimes think I trace
A coldness in his look.
If I have lost his love
I know my heart will break;
And haply, they I left for him
Will sorrow for my sake.