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Welcome to Winterdyne.
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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
Welcome to Winterdyne.
Francie and Willie, welcome to you!
Alfred and Alice, welcome too!
To an English home and English love
Welcome, each little Irish dove!
Never again we hope to be
Kept apart by an angry sea.
A thousand welcomes, O darlings mine,
When we see you at Winterdyne!
Alfred and Alice, welcome too!
To an English home and English love
Welcome, each little Irish dove!
Never again we hope to be
Kept apart by an angry sea.
A thousand welcomes, O darlings mine,
When we see you at Winterdyne!
Welcome all to a warm new nest,
Just the place for our doves to rest,
Through the oaks and beeches looking down
On the winding valley and quaint old town,
Where ivy green on the red rock grows,
And silvery Severn swiftly flows,
With an extra sparkle and glitter and shine
Under the woods of Winterdyne.
Just the place for our doves to rest,
309
On the winding valley and quaint old town,
Where ivy green on the red rock grows,
And silvery Severn swiftly flows,
With an extra sparkle and glitter and shine
Under the woods of Winterdyne.
On a quiet evening in lovely spring,
In the tall old elms the nightingales sing;
Under the forest in twilight grey,
I have heard them more than a mile away,
Sweeter and louder and far more clear
Than any thrush you ever did hear;
Perhaps, when the evenings grow long and fine,
They will sing to you in Winterdyne.
In the tall old elms the nightingales sing;
Under the forest in twilight grey,
I have heard them more than a mile away,
Sweeter and louder and far more clear
Than any thrush you ever did hear;
Perhaps, when the evenings grow long and fine,
They will sing to you in Winterdyne.
Little to sadden, and nothing to fear;
Priest and Fenian never come here;
Only the sound of the Protestant bells
Up from the valley pleasantly swells,
And a beautiful arch, to church, is made
Under the sycamore avenue's shade;
You pass where its arching boughs entwine,
Out of the gates of Winterdyne.
Priest and Fenian never come here;
Only the sound of the Protestant bells
Up from the valley pleasantly swells,
And a beautiful arch, to church, is made
Under the sycamore avenue's shade;
You pass where its arching boughs entwine,
Out of the gates of Winterdyne.
Welcome to merry old England! And yet
We know that old Ireland you will not forget;
Many a thought and prayer will fly
Over the mountains of Wales so high,
Over the forest and over the sea,
To the home which no longer yours must be.
But farewells are over, O darlings mine,
Now it is Welcome to Winterdyne!
We know that old Ireland you will not forget;
Many a thought and prayer will fly
Over the mountains of Wales so high,
Over the forest and over the sea,
To the home which no longer yours must be.
But farewells are over, O darlings mine,
Now it is Welcome to Winterdyne!
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |