'Tis many a year, since first I drew
Your airs, ye hills, with panting breast;
And on your rocks the loud halloo
With voice and waving arm exprest.
Your rugged steeps I loved to climb,
And thence with eager eye survey,
When seated on their brow sublime,
The fields and farmhouse far away.
'Tis many a year.

Those years I wish would come again,
Those distant times I oft recall;
Alas! My youthful joys are slain;
I say, as silent tear-drops fall,
Where are the days, when down your side
The little sled, that bore me swift,
At winter eve I loved to guide
O'er icy steep and frozen drift?
'Tis many a year.

Old men have died since I was young;
Young men have into manhood grown.
It is not now, as when I sung
Upon those distant hills alone,
And called upon the rocks to hear,
And called upon the trees around,
And rocks, and trees, and waters near
Echoed me back their joyful sound.
'Tis many a year.