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| THERE are riches without measure | |
| Scattered thickly o’er the land; | |
| There are heaps and heaps of treasure, | |
| Bright, beautiful, and grand; | |
| There are forests, there are mountains, | 5 |
| There are meadows, there are rills, | |
| Forming everlasting fountains | |
| In the bosoms of the hills; | |
| There are birds and there are flowers | |
| The fairest things that be— | 10 |
| And these great and joyful dowers, | |
| Oh! “they all belong to me.” | |
| |
| There are golden acres bending | |
| In the light of harvest rays, | |
| There are garland branches blending | 15 |
| With the breath of June’s sweet days | |
| There are pasture grasses blowing | |
| In the dewy, moorland shade, | |
| There are herds of cattle lowing | |
| In the midst of bloom and blade; | 20 |
| There are noble elms that quiver, | |
| As the gale comes full and free, | |
| There are alders by the river, | |
| And “they all belong to me.” | |
| |
| I care not who may reckon | 25 |
| The wheat piled up in sacks, | |
| Nor who has power to beckon | |
| The woodman with his axe; | |
| I care not who hold leases | |
| Of the upland or the dell, | 30 |
| Nor who may count the fleeces | |
| When the flocks are fit to sell. | |
| While there’s beauty none can barter | |
| By the greensward and the tree: | |
| Claim who will, by seal and charter, | 35 |
| Yet “they all belong to me.” | |
| |
| There’s the thick and dingled cover | |
| Where the hare and pheasant play, | |
| There are sheets of rosy clover, | |
| There are hedges crowned with May; | 40 |
| There are vines all dark and gushing. | |
| There are orchards ripe and red, | |
| There are herds of wild deer crushing | |
| The heath-bells as they tread. | |
| And ye, who count in money | 45 |
| The value these may be, | |
| Your hives but hold my honey, | |
| For “they all belong to me.” | |
| |
| Ye cannot shut the tree in, | |
| Ye cannot hide the hills, | 50 |
| Ye cannot wall the sea in, | |
| Ye cannot choke the rills; | |
| The corn will only nestle | |
| In the broad arms of the sky, | |
| The clover crop must wrestle | 55 |
| With the common wind, or die. | |
| And while these stores of treasure | |
| Are spread where I may see, | |
| By God’s high, bounteous pleasure, | |
| “They all belong to me.” | 60 |
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| What care I for the profit | |
| The stricken stem may yield? | |
| I have the shadow of it | |
| While upright in the field. | |
| What reck I of the riches | 65 |
| The mill-stream gathers fast, | |
| While I bask in shady niches, | |
| And see the brook go past? | |
| What reck I who has title | |
| To the widest lands that be? | 70 |
| They are mine, without requital, | |
| God gave them all to me. | |
| |
| Oh! privilege and blessing, | |
| To find I ever own, | |
| What great ones, in possessing | 75 |
| Imagine theirs alone! | |
| Oh! glory to the Maker, | |
| Who gave such boon to hold, | |
| Who made me free partaker | |
| Where others buy with gold! | 80 |
| For while the woods and mountains | |
| Stand up where I can see, | |
| While God unlocks the fountains, | |
| “They all belong to me!” | |
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