I grew up on the side of Clinch Mountain,
with the beauties and the music of the woods,
the sweet song of the bright bubbling fountain,
and the warble of the birds I understood.
When I've sung my last song in the evening,
and the sun sets in the golden west,
all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
Long ago said the oak and the cedar,
singing deeply in a whisper of the past,
stood not then this great towering leader,
nor the fountain where the crystal gems are cast.
When I've sung my last song in the evening,
and the sun sets in the golden west,
all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
Then I asked how this green lofty mountain
in the caldron the lonely desert stood,
said this song of the bright sunny fountain,
we were given by the waters of the flood.
When I've sung my last song in the evening,
and the sun sets in the golden west,
all the scenes of this world I'll be leaving,
in the shadow of Clinch Mountain I will rest.
Out that gate I have passed since my childhood,
o'er the railway through the tunnel to the west,
singing songs of the Clinch Mountain wildwood,
songs that people found and birds love the best.