Samuel Henry Dickson

I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine; Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay woodbine; Where the moss droops low from the green oak tree— Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me!

The snowy flower of the orange there Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air; And the Indian rose delights to twine Its branches with the laughing vine.

There the deer leaps light through the open glade, Or hides him far in the forest shade, When the woods resound in the dewy morn With the clang of the merry hunter’s horn.

There the humming-bird, of rainbow plume, Hangs over the scarlet creeper’s bloom; While ’midst the leaves his varying dyes Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes.

There the echoes ring through the livelong day With the mock-bird’s changeful roundelay; And at night, when the scene is calm and still, With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will.

Oh! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine, Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine, Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak tree,— That sun-bright land is the land for me.