Camden Maine’s a quaint New England town,
Where gentle hills run up and down.
One comes from over the beach at Lincolnville,
And there it sits along a hill —
A village of tranquility,
Where hills and mountains meet the sea.
This small and scenic seacoast town,
Is known and loved the world around.
Her little shops of books and frills,
Run up and down her gentle hills —
And just a step or two away,
In quiet beauty lies the bay.
At the village‘s edge, a library
overlooks the harbor and the sea.
There’s a waterfall whose pounding spray,
Runs forcefully into the bay —
While wlndjammers within the harbor there,
Sail in and out without a care.
Somehow the pulse of history heats,
Beneath her shady tree-lined streets,
Where stately homes of wood or stone,
Stand side by side, or all alone —
And white church steeples, tall and high,
Seem to penetrate the sky.
Beyond the town, her trees are seen,
Big and tall, and sparse and green.
In the woods, a waterfall small and gay,
Runs merrily along its way —
While below, some fifty feet or more,
Waves beat upon the rocky shore.
Across the road, beyond the town,
Mount Battie from on high, looks down.
A lofty tower hovers there,
Like a castle in the air —
One climbs its heights, and one can spy
scenic sights of sea and sky.
On the horizon, the tops of trees,
Tower high above the seas.
The large rocks that are scattered there
are big and wide, and cold and bare —
And all the countryside around,
Her paths with blueberries abound.
There’s a blue and purple mist,
With which the Camden Hills are kissed,
As winding mountain paths reach down,
To outer regions of the town —
A blazing sun shines out on high,
From a pink and vivid sky.
Long may a friendly sun shine down,
On that scenic seacoast town,
For there’s a quiet dignity,
In that little town beside the sea —
And may that dignity remain,
Beneath the hills, in Camden, Maine.