There is a region lovelier far

Than sages tell or poets sing—

Brighter than summer’s beauties are,

And softer than the tints of spring.

CHORUS.

I’m going home, I’m going home,

I’m going home to die no more,

To die no more, to die no more,

I’m going home to die no more.

2 It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose;

No cloud obscures the radiant scene;

There not a tear of sorrow flows.