We'll hear the woodland song.

Or trace the winding silver stream,
And linger on its banks,
While all the birds in concert sweet,
Present their evening thanks.

We'll seek the ancient forest shade,
And see its branches wave,
Which have, perchance, a requiem sang
Above the red man's grave.

We'll breathe the pure untainted air,
Fresh from the verdant hills;
And pluck wild blossoms from their beds
Beside the laughing rills.

I love the country in the spring,
With all its waving trees;
When songs of joy from every grove
Are wafted on the breeze.

The smiling pastures robed in green,
How beautiful, and gay;
With bleating flocks, and lowing herds,
And little lambs at play.

I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
In summer's pleasant hours;
And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,