Classic Poem

I AM leaving the home of my fathers,
Home of my childhood's days,
The place that I was born in,
To follow my father's ways,
Who held the farm before me,
Long generations through;
Their graves are in the churchyard —
I would that mine were, too.
I've farmed here all my lifetime,
The only home I know;
How could I ever leave it? —
They say I've got to go.
My roots are deeply buried
Far down in this old fen,
They're much too tough to loosen,
They won't come up again.

The orchard with its apple trees,
The dairy, dark and cool,
The pigeon-cote, the willows,
The ducks upon the pool;
The stackyard through the garden door —
My yard, that I shall walk no more!
Nor watch the wagons come,
When on the topped-up load they shout,
And lead the " Harvest Home " .

The land, the land, I know so well,
I know it all by heart!
And blindfold, every foot could tell,
Down to the far-most part;
O! pastures where the soil is rich.
O! furrows straight and true!
O! pleasant smell of burning twitch!
You bind my heart to you.

They are selling the home of my fathers,
Home of my childhood's days;
Why don't they sell me with it?
I'm too old to change my ways.
My heart went in when I sowed the corn,
Too deep and far to trace;
I'm too far gone, like an old oak tree,
I shall wither away if they meddle with me,
It's the place where I was born.
Let me die in peace by my fireside,
And lay my bones where my fathers bide.