Classic Poem

O THE bloom of the bluebells in Scacafel's woods,
O the tints of the larch leaves above!
O the ferns overspreading, as dark emerald hoods,
Round the bloom of the bluebells in Scacafel's woods;
It was Spring in her playfullest, sprightliest moods,
As I climbed up the path with my love;
O the bloom of the bluebells in Scacafel's woods,
And the tints of the larch leaves above!

O the heather and gorse on old Bradda's broad back,
A mantle of purple and gold!
(No purple or gold need the Manxman e'er lack
While there's heather and gorse on old Bradda's broad back);
Down below, toiled the farmer 'mid stook and 'mid stack,
For Autumn had naught to withhold;
O the heather and gorse on old Bradda's broad back,
A mantle of purple and gold!

O the hawthorn or rose, like white cliffs o'er a strait,
O'erhanging the road on each side!
O the fuchsia that brightens each cottager's gate
'Twixt the hawthorn, or rose, the white cliffs o'er the strait;
Such beauties in Manxland lie constant in wait,
Nor alone in one district abide;
O the hawthorn or rose, like white cliffs o'er a strait,
O'erhanging the road on each side!

My love, are we chained to this drab, dismal town,
Have we bidden our Mother good-bye?
Though the call of the glens Mammon's chariots would crown,
My love, are we chained to this drab, dismal town?
O to lay all the strenuous history down,
To see the dear face and then die!
My love, are we chained to this drab, dismal town,
Have we bidden our Mother good-bye?