Over the hill to Hustonville,
Past mead and vale and waving grain,
With fleecy clouds and glad sunshine
And the balm of the coming rain;
On where hidden beneath the hill,
In the widening vale below—
Chime and smithy and distant herd
Sing a song of the long ago.
Over the hill to Hustonville
Where silent fields are sad and brown
And the crow's lone call is blended
With the anvil-beat of the town;
Where sweet the hamlet life flows on,
And the doors, ever open wide,
Welcome the worn and wandering
To the ingle and cheer inside.
Over the hill to Hustonville
I knew and loved as a child,
A scene that yet lights up to me
With a radiant glow and mild;
With drowsy lane and quiet street,
The gables quaint and the houses gray,
Ancient inn with battered sign,
And an air of the far-away.
Over the hill to Hustonville
Where men are still sturdy and strong
As were their sires in days long past—
As true as their flint-locks long;
And maids are shy and soft of speech—
As the wild rose lithesome and true—
Eyes alight as the coming dawn—
Softly blue, as their skies are blue.
Some—sometimes—in the bye-and-bye,
With all my life-won riches rare—
Dead hopes and faded memories—
A silken floss of baby hair—
Fast-locked close within my heart—
Worn of strife and the empty quest—
I'll o'er the hill to Hustonville.
To dream ever—and rest—and rest.