With the scent of woodsmoke drifting on the air,
And the glow of firelight we always love to share,
Visions of camp-fires all return,
And as the logs flame up and burn,
We dream of bygone camp-fires and long for those to come.

Tongues of yellow fire flickering up on high,
Reaching twisting fingers up to a starlit sky,
Voices recall songs old and new,
Songs once dear to our fathers too,
Who dreamed of bygone camp-fires and longed for those to come.

Gently dying embers cast a rosy glow,
Voices slowly sinking to tones so soft and low,
Slowly upon the still night air,
Fall faithful voices hushed in prayer,
That dream of bygone camp-fires and long for those to come.