The farms of home

The farms of home lie lost in even,

I see far off the steeple stand;

West and away from here to heaven

Still is the land.

There if I go no girl will greet me,

No comrade hollo from the hill,

No dog run down the yard to meet me:

The land is still.

The land is still by farm and steeple,

And still for me the land may stay:

There I was friends with perished people,

And there lie they.