Goodnight, the sun is sinking low
And hides behind the distant hill.
The western sky is all aglow
The evening breeze is blowing chill.

I stand alone on the steep incline
And gaze on the verdant vale below.
The church clock chimes the hour of nine,
And falls on ear all solemn and slow.

A golden pheasant sits nearby,
Crouched beneath the hedgerow thorn,
Where Neath her wings the broodings lie,
Silent in slumber till the morn

A blackbird, loath to lose the day,
Pipes just one more discordant note.
The walking owl now seeks its prey,
And screamings o'er the meadow float.

The hedgehog creeps from its cosy lair,
And welcomes the approach of night.
Hatbats flit about in the air,
And are lost in the shade of woodland site.

Ah, ancient hill; ah, lonely spot,
To me your haunts are ever dear.
I often feel, I would my lot
Were cast upon thy pastures here.

'Tis good sometimes to be alone.
'Tis then the deepest thoughts arise,
And God makes more His presence known,
And heaven seems nearer than the skies.