Across the hills of the evening
my true love passed away.
The sun went down through the mists on the hills
and the clouds were cold and gray.
And the nightingale calls through the gloom
and the thrush calls all the day,
but my heart, though he should ne'er return,
will call for its love for aye.

Across the hills of the morning
my love returned to me.
The sun arose through the mist of the hills
and sailed in golden sea.
And the nightingale sings to the stars
and the thrush makes glad the day,
for my love shall pass away no more,
and my heart is at peace for aye.