The Sabbath morn its holy calm
Breathes o'er the prairie lands,
And the answering heart hears Nature's psalm
And the wild woods clap their hands.
But I long to hear the church bell's sound
Tell to these wilds that day,
When thousands meet to praise and pray
In the Green Isle far away.

Here life lays hold of brighter things
For the fair years to be,
But the deathless Past and all her dreams,
Old land, belong to thee!
The buried love, the buried hope
Of youth's glad summer day,
That blend with unforgotten scenes
Of the Green Isle, far away.

And while we love this pleasant land
And own it good and fair,
Our hearts' first love goes backward
And fondly lingers there--
Back to the dear home country,
Then forward to that day
When all shall meet together,
From the Green Isle pass'd away.