Come To The South

Oh, come to the South, sweet, beautiful one,
‘Tis the clime of the heart, ‘tis the shrine of the sun;
Where the sky ever shines with a passionate glow,
And flowers spread their treasures of crimson and snow;
Where the breeze, o’er bright waters, wafts incense along,
And gay birds are glancing in beauty and song;
Where summer smiles ever o’er mountain and plain,
And the best gifts of Eden, unshadowed, remain.

Oh, come to the South,
The shrine of the sun;
And dwell in its bowers,
Sweet, beautiful one.

Oh, come to the South, and I’ll build thee a home,
Where winter shall never intrusively come,
The queen-like catalpa, the myrtle and pine,
The gold-fruited orange, the ruby-gemmed vine,
Shall bloom ’round thy dwelling, and shade thee at noon,
While birds of all music keep amorous tune;

By the gush of glad fountains we’ll rest us at eve,
No trouble to vex us, no sorrows to grieve.
Oh, come to the South, &c.

Oh, come to the South, ‘tis the home the heart—
No sky like its own can deep passion impart;
The glow of its summer felt in the soul,
And love keepeth ever his fervent control.
Oh, here would thy beauty most brilliantly beam,
And life pass away like some delicate dream; Each wish of thy heart should realized be,
And this beautiful land seem an Eden to thee.

Then, come to the South,
The shrine of the sun;
And dwell in its bowers,
Sweet, beautiful one.