Yet we, who for the rose of health
To other climes have flown;
May sing of all thy golden wealth,
Fair Valley of Ione.
To other climes have flown;
May sing of all thy golden wealth,
Fair Valley of Ione.
The wire-bridge, stretched from bank to bank
Across the brimming creek;
The hill, with wild-flowers growing rank
The childish hands to pick;
The goats that clambered up the rock,
Rich meadows newly-mown;
And Fido, barking down the walk,
Are scenes of thine, Ione.
Across the brimming creek;
The hill, with wild-flowers growing rank
The childish hands to pick;
The goats that clambered up the rock,
Rich meadows newly-mown;
And Fido, barking down the walk,
Are scenes of thine, Ione.
Ye foothills of Sierra's Range,
Green be your sunny slopes!
Ye fertile fields, where never change
In recollection gropes;
Ye banks and rocks and fences old,
With moses overgrown;
Of sunbeams be your settings, gold,
Fair Valley of Ione.
Green be your sunny slopes!
Ye fertile fields, where never change
In recollection gropes;
Ye banks and rocks and fences old,
With moses overgrown;
Of sunbeams be your settings, gold,
Fair Valley of Ione.
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