Chillingham, II
O the high valley, the little low hill,
— And the cornfield over the sea,
The wind that rages and then lies still,
— And the clouds that rest and flee!
O the gray island in the rainbow haze,
— And the long thin spits of land,
The roughening pastures and the stony ways,
— And the golden flash of the sand!
O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock,
— And the fir-tree stiff and straight,
The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock,
— And the rotten old five-barred gate!
O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough,
— The scent of the gorse in the air!
I shall love them ever as I love them now,
— I shall weary in Heaven to be there!
— And the cornfield over the sea,
The wind that rages and then lies still,
— And the clouds that rest and flee!
O the gray island in the rainbow haze,
— And the long thin spits of land,
The roughening pastures and the stony ways,
— And the golden flash of the sand!
O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock,
— And the fir-tree stiff and straight,
The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock,
— And the rotten old five-barred gate!
O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough,
— The scent of the gorse in the air!
I shall love them ever as I love them now,
— I shall weary in Heaven to be there!
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