On to the beckoning hills;

And the throstles sing by the holy spring

Which the Blessed Virgin fills.

White is the road and light is the load,

For the burden we bear together.

Our feet beat time on the upward climb

That ends in the purpling heather.

There is spring in the air and everywhere

The throb of a life new-born,

In mating thrush and blossoming brush,

In the hush o’ the glowing morn.

Our hearts bound free as the open sea;

Where now is our dole o’ sorrow?

The winds have swept the tears we’ve wept—

And promise a braver morrow.

But this I pray as we go our way:

To find the Hills o’ Heather,

And, at hush o’ night, in peace to light

Our roadside fire together.

CONTENTS

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