Over moss covered crypts on Hickory Hill... The trees grow heavy in the Southern light.
In the craggy canyon of Devils Jump... The shallows bid the sun goodnight.
Behind the silent knoll called Edwins rock... The shadows reach far and wide.
Under the river ford its shivering cold... And certainly no place to hide.
Around the corner from Armathwaite... The lanterns are large and small.
In front of old familiar... The chief stands brave and tall.
I'm oh so tired and weary... My travels scantly through.
I wish my mind would settle... But its nice to share with you.
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