Its white walls glisten through the trees,

  Its windows catch the sunset’s glow,

Its rising smoke the traveller sees

  From the broad river’s bank below.

There’s peace around it day and night,

  And love that makes a summer still;

Through all the year keeps warm and bright

  My father’s house upon the hill.


In pinching times the poor come there

  From many a hut and hamlet round;

For ready help, and kindly cheer,

  Within its doors are always found.

Our land has halls where plenty flows

Has lords, and squires, with wealth at will;

Best of all the poor man knows

  My father’s house upon the hill.


In week-day work, and Sabbath rest,

  The passing seasons o’er it glide,

With many a game, and many a guest,

  At harvest-home, and Christmas tide.

Flowers grow without, and smiles within

  The hearth is never sad or chill;

Lord keep from grief and save from sin

  My father’s house upon the hill.