Poems and Lancashire Songs By Edwin Waugh. Fourth Edition, With Additions |
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THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME. |
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 | Poems and Lancashire Songs |  |
88
THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME.
Bring me a goblet of drink divine,
To welcome a minstrel friend of mine!
Enfranchised from the dreary crowd,
That wrapt his spirit like a shroud,
Once more he climbs the moorlands dun,
And hears his native rindles run;
Through pleasant vales he takes his way,
Where wild-flowers with the waters play;
And listens with enchanted mind
As wizard voices in the wind
Sing of his darling native earth,
The rude, the true, the hardy north!
His native dales, his native streams—
The angels of his exile-dreams—
Each dingle green, each breezy height,
Awakes his spirit to delight.
Oh, welcome to the fresh old hills!
The mossy crags, and tinkling rills—
To field, and wood, and moorland glen,
Welcome, welcome home again!
To welcome a minstrel friend of mine!
Enfranchised from the dreary crowd,
That wrapt his spirit like a shroud,
Once more he climbs the moorlands dun,
And hears his native rindles run;
Through pleasant vales he takes his way,
Where wild-flowers with the waters play;
And listens with enchanted mind
As wizard voices in the wind
Sing of his darling native earth,
The rude, the true, the hardy north!
89
The angels of his exile-dreams—
Each dingle green, each breezy height,
Awakes his spirit to delight.
Oh, welcome to the fresh old hills!
The mossy crags, and tinkling rills—
To field, and wood, and moorland glen,
Welcome, welcome home again!
Well may the pleasant summer air
Fondly play with thy silver hair;
Well may the brooklet's ripples clear
Leap as thy footsteps wander near;
Well may the wild-flowers on the lea,
Nodding their pretty heads to thee,
Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet,
Their fond old poet friend to meet;—
They've waited, and have listened long,
For thee, oh, white-haired son of song!
Though tempests rage and clouds are black,
The sun keeps on his glorious track,
Serenely shining, to the west,
And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest.
Thy task, old bard, is nearly done:
Oh, may the evening coming on,
Long lingering sweetly round thy way,
Close like a cloudless summer day!
Fondly play with thy silver hair;
Well may the brooklet's ripples clear
Leap as thy footsteps wander near;
Well may the wild-flowers on the lea,
Nodding their pretty heads to thee,
Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet,
Their fond old poet friend to meet;—
They've waited, and have listened long,
For thee, oh, white-haired son of song!
90
The sun keeps on his glorious track,
Serenely shining, to the west,
And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest.
Thy task, old bard, is nearly done:
Oh, may the evening coming on,
Long lingering sweetly round thy way,
Close like a cloudless summer day!
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