I came o’er the distant hills, 
I heard a wee bird sing: 
O pleasant are the primrose buds 
In the perfumed breath of spring ) 
And pleasant are the mossy banks, 
Beneath the birchen bowers,— 
But a home wherein no children play, 
Is a garden shorn of flowers !” 
And once again I heard the bird, 
His song was loud and clear : 
“ How glorious are the leafy woods 
In the summer of the year ! 
All clothed in green, the lovely boughs 
Spread wide o’er laud and lea,— 
But the home wherein no son is born, 
Is a land without a tree !” 
