Over hill and under hill, and through the meadows green:
Across the sand, across the sea, so many things I’ve seen.

I’ve seen the forest’s winter, watched the woods fill up with snow,
I’ve seen the desert’s summer, felt it’s hot and cruel wind blow.

I’ve seen the field’s autumn, watched the busy people reap
A hundred miles of golden stalks and fill their carts with wheat.

But many years away it’s been, a long time since I’ve seen
The wonderful and flowered spring back in Illmathering.

The valleys fill with color while the pines grow tall and strong.
The eagles soar above the clouds, the Falls sing wild their song.

Such memories I seem to have gf such a wondrous spring,
A fondness for my reveries of dear Illmathering.

But all these thoughts are bittersweet, for oh, if I return,
The Spring will turn to ashes, and Illmathering will burn.