Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn,

A hundred flags in air,

But one which tossed but yesterday

Is dead, one hearth is bare.

The wife whose fingers fed the fire

Grew weary of the play,

A lad laughed thro’ the open door

And stole my dear away.

And now alone I face the road;

No hearth, no home for me.

And yet—Ah Life!—come sun, come rain,

My beggar soul is free.