 | Poems and Lancashire Songs |  |
77
HERE'S TO MY NATIVE LAND.
I
Here's to my native land;And here's to the heathery hills,
Where the little birds sing on the blooming boughs,
To the dancing moorland rills.
II
There's a lonely little cot,And it stands by a spreading tree,
Where a kind old face has looked from the door
Full many a time for me;—
78
III
On the slope of a flowery dell,And hard by a rippling brook;
And it's oh for a peep at the chimney-top,
Or a glint of the chimney-nook!
IV
And there is a still churchyard,Where many an old friend lies;
And I fain would sleep in my native ground
At last, when they close my eyes.
V
When summer days were fine,The lads of the fold and I
Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon
Has died in the morning sky.
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VI
Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woodsOn a sunny summer's day;
And I wish I was helping the moorland lads
To tumble their scented hay!
VII
Though many a pleasant nookIn many a land I've seen,
I'd wander back to my own green hills,
If the wide world lay between.
VIII
They say there's bluer skiesAcross the foaming sea:—
Each man that is born has a land of his own,
And this is the land for me!
| Poems and Lancashire Songs | |