Dear hills of the Northland,
Dear valleys I knew,
I yearn for your uplands
Wind-swept in the blue;
In dreamland I see you
And hear myself calling:
“Dear hills of my Boyland, I come.”
And back from your mountains,
The echo sweet falling:
“Dear hills of my Boyland, I come.”

Dear hill-tops of silence,
Pale-crested with star,
The wind from your flowers
Blows eastward afar.
Can you still hear me calling
Through the mist of my tears:
“Dear hills of my Boyland, I come.”
Then faint and so lonely
Steals back through the years:
“Dear hills of my Boyland, I come.”