Classic Poem

Many rushes by the brooks,
And many warblers in the reeds,
In the fields pitch many rooks,
And many kine are in the meads;
But there's one above the rest
Of ev'ry kind, whate'er it be,
And so of souls at Meldonley,
One seems to me by far the best.

Many hours in all the week,
And many weeks in all the year,
We have many calls to speak,
And many words that we must hear;
Fain would I, as week-days roll,
Still greet one head with kindly words,
Or would hear, with morning birds,
The tongue that's sweetest to my soul.

Oh! how many surnames fall
Upon the young, from sires of old,
By how many names we call
The children brought to Jesus' fold;
Ev'ry village that we see
Is known by name, or far, or near,
But the dearest name to me
Is that which hallows Meldonley.