Oh come to the West, love: ah! Come there with me,
'tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne;
oh! come to the West, and I'll make thee my own; 
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best, 
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West.

The South has its roses and bright skies of blue, 
But ours are more sweet than love's own changeful hue, 
half sunshine, half tears like the girl I love best, 
oh! what is the South to the beautiful West. 
Then come there with me and the rose on my mouth 
will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the South. 

The North has its towers of dazzling array,
all sparkling with gems like the ne'er setting day. 
There the stormking may dwell in the halls he loves best, 
but the soft breathing zephyr he plays in the West, 
Then come to the West where no cold wind doth blow 
and thy neck will be fairer to me than the snow. 

The sun in the gorgeous East chases the night, 
where he riseth refreshed in his glory and might, 
But where does he go when he sees his sweet nest, 
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West. 
Then come there with me, 'tis the land I love best,
'tis the land of my sires, 'tis my own darling West.