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I love to roam o'er the mountains wild,
All topped with heathy brown--
For I'd rather be called the desert child,
Than dwell in the crowded town.


I turn my eyes from the gilded toys
Of the fanciful bazaar,
To muse upon the purer joys,
Of the verdant hills afar.


O! tell me not of the city gay,
Or of towns where merchants be,
Where luxury riots from day to day,
In the haunts of revelry.


Tho' they be the homes of fashion and wealth,
They're also the haunts of sin,
And not conducive to vigorous health,
And happiness felt within.


My home is on the green hill side,
Where sweetest flowrets grow,
Where crystal streamlets gently glide
Down to the vale below.


And in this sweet vale by the river's banks,
You may oft see the angler stray,
Or at eve the youth in a thousand pranks
Beguiling the time away.


Then send me back to my country home
Till I breathe the balmy sweets,
I never inhale in the lamp-lit dome
Nor in the crowded streets.