The hills of Karelia begin now to green
in the land that I long for, the fairest I've seen.
I can still hear in mem'ry the cockoos that sing
and my yearning to be there returns each spring.
How well I once knew all the woods, the hills,
and the blue hazy waters, the fiords, the rills.
I can sense the wood smoke that drifts to the skies,
the deep brooding silence beneath ancient trees.
Oh, there in the groves of the spruce I would roam
in the land that I love so, the land I call home.
On the hills of Karelia, bareheaded I'd stand
delighting to look at the beautiful land.