The dearest spot to each on earth,
Is Home -- the cherished land of birth;
For me no place, however fair
Can hold a candle to compare
With Trinity.

No matter where her children roam,
Her wide-flung arms entice them home
No skyline, Trinitarians think,
Can beat Fort Point and bold Skerwink.

Each treasured spot they love so well,
Forever in their memories dwell--
The pleasant walks around Hog's Nose--
The shady nooks down through Glen Cove.

The moonlight picnics on the Fort--
The sing-songs coming home in the boat.
And in the clear October days,
The hills around so "all ablaze"
With crimson, orange, rust and gold--
The magic spell of Rosy Cove
At Trinity.

No visitor should leave until
They've seen the view from Rider's Hill
How often in the summer-time,
On Sunday afternoons we'd climb

Right to the top, then sit and rest
And view the scene so picturesque,
Each way you turn presents a new
And perfect panoramic view.

No sky-scrapers -- no buildings tall
(except the spire of old St. Paul's)
No blaring horns, no thick black smokes;
No strident tones to jar the ear
But muted voices here and there--
The Peace of God lay like a prayer
On Trinity.

We'd know the time for coming down
When one by one a*round the town
Blue smokes would spiral lazily,
As folks prepared their Sunday tea.

The South-side hills, we used to say,
Was a giant couch where an ogre lay;
The back, a tapestry, dark green--
The seats were plush of emerald sheen--

Pushed back against a sky-blue wall,
A vaulted ceiling over all
And if the day were fine and calm
Another sofa, upside down,
Was mirrored in the South-west Arm
Of Trinity.

Such happy thoughts, and many more
Are safely kept in Memory's store
By sons and daughters when away,
Their errant footsteps sometimes stray
They oft recall the many charms
And long for the encircling arms
Of Trinity.