Who trod the midnight hours away
Beside the spinning wheel?
Who tossed the shuttle till the day
Crept o'er the eastern hilltops grey,
Or turned the whirling reel?
Who cut the mighty bogs away
And wooed the stubborn soil
To yield such fields of upland clay
And smiling homes along the way,
Fit monitors of toil?
You and the master guiding hand
Of him who rules above.
Gave us those hills and valleys grand -
Gave us this pleasant happy land -
The Village that we love.
You often think as girl or boy,
Watched o'er by parent love;
You dreamed of life made up of joy,
Of golden truth without alloy,
Of hope laid up above