I GLORY in my native hills;
The stormy blast of autumn wind
Is far more pleasing to my mind
Than breeze that summer valley fills.
I take no note of paltry ills,
I care not if my love's unkind;
For me, all unrestrained, no chills
Hath stormy blast of winter wind.
One thought my spirit wildly thrills, -
God willing, here my bones shall find
A mountain grave that clouds do bind,
And the tall snowy crags behind:
I glory in my native hills!
W. R. T.