The Lanes of Old England
The lanes of old England are tranquil and green, No land can compare, Fresh scents of crushed grasses, damp moss by a brook, Make dreamy the air; When eglantine climbs with sweet woodbine again, Haw hedges spread wide, Flushed beauty and fragrance inspiring to walk With bounce in your stride. Bold trees build shade-canopies arched overhead, Leaves dappling the way, A piping and twittering brightens the mood From first hint of day... With sudden surprises... a horse by his gate, The splash of a spring; New lambs leaping gaily, a hare on the run; Barn owls on the wing.
The lanes of old England wind on and on, Fine views on each hand, A greenery pleasant to eye and to mind Throughout this fair land; They urge us to go further, beyond that next turn Past farmhouse and shed, Past thatch and sharp steeple, and over the hill Where Sol goes down red.
So tranquil, but urgently drawing away Through valley and combe... Where blackbirds and nightingales minstrel for joy, And wild flowers bloom.