Chillingham, I
Through the sunny garden
The humming bees are still;
The fir climbs the heather,
The heather climbs the hill.
The low clouds have riven
The little rift through.
The hill climbs to heaven,
Far away and blue.
The humming bees are still;
The fir climbs the heather,
The heather climbs the hill.
The low clouds have riven
The little rift through.
The hill climbs to heaven,
Far away and blue.
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