BLUEBERRIESBy Frank Prentice RandUPON the hills of GarlingtownBeneath the summer sky,In many pleasant pasturesOn sunny slopes and high,Their skins abloom with dusty blue,Asleep, the berries lie.

And all the lads of Garlingtown,And all the lasses too,Still climb the tranquil hillsides,A merry, barefoot crew;Still homeward plod with unfilled pailsAnd mouths of berry blue.

And all the birds of Garlingtown,When flocking back to nest,Remember well the patchesWhere berries are the best;They pick the ripest ones at dawnAnd leave the lads the rest.

Upon the hills of GarlingtownWhen berry-time was o’er,I looked into the sunset,And saw an open door,And from the hills of GarlingtownI went, and came no more.

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