I wish I was where I in youthful ages roved,
Where I could see old places well beloved,
Fresh green fields, smiling sunny brae,
Sweet flowers of summer, Warblers tuneful lay,
The old mill wheel, Ivy green upon a wall,
I see it, Through mist of age I see it all,
The harbour light upon the rippling wave,
That timeless drip within a darkened cave,
Lambs frisk and play all in season due,
Everything as it was nothing there is new,
The old spring well with grey green wooden rail,
The path, Whitethorn tree, Hoop and pail,
The spring tide draws upon its mark,
Recedes then lost in ocean deep and dark.
The budding tree to mark the birth of spring.
Leaves, Flowers and Fruit each season bring.
Then Autumn came all in her robes of gold.
Summer flew away, the year is growing old,
I wish that I could see again that twinkling light,
My homeland, The Moon, Frost and starry night,
I think I hear waves pounding in the Bay,
Rumbling farm-cart upon a headland way,
The ringing anvil, Happy story in the Forge,
Rushing River, Rod and Line, Grey stone Bridge.
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