There Is A Place Hung O'Er With Summer Boughs And Drowsy Skies Wherein The Gray Hawk Sleeps; Where Waters Flow, Within Whose Lazy Deeps, Like Silvery Prisms That The Winds Arouse, The Minnows Twinkle; Where The Bells Of Cows Tinkle The Stillness, And The Bob-White Keeps Calling From Meadows Where The Reaper Reaps, And Children'S Laughter Haunts An Old-Time House; A Place Where Life Wears Ever An Honest Smell Of Hay And Honey, Sun And Elder-Bloom - Like Some Dear, Modest Girl - Within Her Hair: Where, With Our Love For Comrade, We May Dwell Far From The City'S Strife Whose Cares Consume - Oh, Take My Hand And Let Me Lead You There.