You may speak of the glories of Scotland
Of lochs and hidden glens
Of isles and sparkling cascades
Beneath the frowning Bens:
You may speak of the beauties of Yorkshie,
Or dream of the Derbyshire Dales;
Or ‘Bless the grey mountains of Donegal’
Or the southern Downland trails.
You may praise all the glories of Lakeland –
Of fell and waterfall;
But give me a Cambrian valley –
The sweetest of them all!
Give me a Cambrian river
Beneath and evening sky,
For there I’d linger for an age
And let the world roll by.
The Best Way
At night when all my work is done
And I am free to roam,
I ride away towards the hills
(For I cannot stay at home)
The hours I have at leisure
Are not so very long;
But through the woods and o’er the moors
Or where the river ceaseless roars
I gladly glide along.
There’s the Sunday too, of freedom
When early I can rise
For on the road at break of day
Is found a paradise:
Sometimes my wheel goes northward
To lands of grouse and heather,
Of chattering streams and upland dells –
I wander o’er the mossy fells
No matter what the weather.
Or southward I may wander
(Let me speak about the south)
In Derbyshire or Cheshire
Where nought e’er seems uncouth,
Amongst those old world hamlets
By some old village green,
Or wandering down those leafy lanes
And o’er the ridge as daylight wanes,
A wealth of bounty seen.
There’s violets in the hedges.
In pretty shades of blue
Primroses deck the forest
With every golden hue
The wild sweet smelling hyacinth
Bells that ring to you
And call you to the woodland glade
To linger in the sun-kissed shade –
These scenes are ever new.
And when as evening closes,
And once again I find
Myself amid the sordid streets –
Those precious scenes behind;
And when the workshop claims me
And fetters round me bind
The moor and mountain, wood and mead,
A little lightsome metal steed
Are called back to mind.