I am dreaming of the mountains of my home,
Of the mountains where in childhood I would roam;
I have dwelt 'neath Southern skies,
Where the summer never dies,
But my heart is in the mountains of my home.

I can see the little homestead on the hill,
I can hear the magic music of the rill;
There is nothing to compare,
With the love that was once there,
In that little homestead on the hill.

I can see the quiet churchyard down below,
Where the mountain breezes wander to and fro;
And when God my soul will keep,
It is there I want to sleep,
With those dear old folks that loved me long ago.