THE SWITZER'S SONG.

I GLORY in my native hills;

The stormy blast of autumn wind

Is far more pleasing to my mind

Than breeze that summer valley fills.

I take no note of paltry ills,

I care not if my love's unkind;

For me, all unrestrained, no chills

Hath stormy blast of winter wind.

One thought my spirit wildly thrills, -

God willing, here my bones shall find

A mountain grave that clouds do bind,

And the tall snowy crags behind:

I glory in my native hills!

W. R. T.