William Cox Bennett

The Green Hills of Surrey

              An Emigrant Song

O, FROM Box Hill and Leith Hill the prospects are fair,
You look o’er the sweet vales of green Surrey there,
And than Surrey’s dear green vales you never saw lie
Or sweeter or greener, beneath the blue sky;
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

O, Farnham, green Farnham, what hop-grounds are there
That with Farnham’s fair hop-grounds can ever compare!
And what pleasure it were once again but to lie
On Guildford’s green hillsides beneath the blue sky!
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

O, Dorking is pleasant, and Dorking is green,
And sweet are the woods and the walks of Deepdene,
But for Dorking’s sweet meadows in vain I must sigh,
And Deepdene’s green woods will no more meet my eye;
But the green woods of Surrey, the sweet woods of Surrey,
The dear woods of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

O, Kent has fair orchards; no pleasanter show
Than her apple-trees blooming in April, I know,	
Save the orchards round Reigate, sweet Reigate, that lie
With their red and white blossoms so fair ’neath the sky.
O, the green fields of Surrey, the sweet fields of Surrey,
The dear fields of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

O Surrey, green Surrey, that I had been born
To a farm ’mongst your fields, with its hops and its corn,
That I ’d not been forced far, my fortune to try,
Across the wide sea, ’neath a far foreign sky!
O, the green vales of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey,
The dear vales of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

Minnesota’s green prairies have plenty for all,
And comfort and wealth here my own I can call,
Yet often and often my thoughts, with a sigh,
Far to Surrey’s green hills, o’er the wide sea will fly;
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

But sighing avails not, and wishing is vain,
And the home of my childhood I ’ll ne’er see again;
The acres my labors made mine here, I ’ll try
To make dear to my heart, as they ’re fair to my eye;
But the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

’Neath the park limes in Betchworth, ’t is there I would stroll;
O, to walk but once more by the clear winding Mole!
But no more shall I hear the soft breeze rustle by
Through those lime-tops, no more by the Mole I shall lie;
But the clear streams of Surrey, the sweet streams of Surrey,
The dear streams of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.

By the gray ivied church, where my father is laid,
Where my mother lies with him, my grave should be made,	
But, far from them, my bones, when my time comes, must lie
’Neath the rain and the snow of a strange foreign sky;
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey,
The dear fields of Surrey, I ’ll love till I die.