Over the mountain wave
See where they come;
Storm-cloud and wintry wind
Welcome them home;
Yet where the sounding gale
Howls to the sea,
There their song peals along,
Deep toned and free.
Pilgrims and wanderers,
Hither we come;
Where the free dare to be,
This is our home.
England hath sunny dales,
Dearly they bloom;
Scotia hath heather-hills,
Sweet their perfume:
Yet through the wilderness
Cheerful we stray,
Native land, native land—
Home far away!
Pilgrims, &c.
Dim grew the forest path,
Onward they trod:
Firm beat their noble hearts,
Trusting in God!
Gray men and blooming maids,
High rose their song—
Hear it sweep, clear and deep
Ever along!
Pilgrims, &c.
Not theirs the glory-wreath,
Torn by the blast;
Heavenward their holy steps,
Heavenward they passed!
Green be their mossy graves!
Ours be their fame,
While their song peals along,
Ever the same!
Pilgrims, &c.