The branches o’ the woodbine hide
My little cottage wall,
An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch,
Aw envy not the hall.

The wooded hills before my eyes
Are spread both far and wide;
An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress,
In all her lovely pride.

It is, indeed, a lovely spot,
O’ singing birds an’ flowers;
’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true,
I pass away my hours.

Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen,
So dear in all its charms;
Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,
Freed from the world’s alarms.

For should love’s magic change the scene,
To trackless lands unknown;
’Twor Eden in the desert wild,
Wi him aw call my own.