Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn,
A hundred flags in air,
But one which tossed but yesterday
Is dead, one hearth is bare.
The wife whose fingers fed the fire
Grew weary of the play,
A lad laughed thro’ the open door
And stole my dear away.
And now alone I face the road;
No hearth, no home for me.
And yet — Ah Life!— come sun, come rain,
My beggar soul is free.