More Songs by the Fighting Men
Hills of Home
TO gloam-blue hills that shadow moorland spaces,
To legend-haunted vales where all is still,
To that grey land where slumber martyred races,
My spirit flees at will.
I hear from far away the whaup's wild crying
Low o'er the moor and wind-swept fringe of sea,
And longing fills my breast and I am sighing—
Sighing for love of thee.
I see, as in a spell, the bracken flowing
Like silver streams beneath a battered moon;
I see the heather darker, redder blowing—
Flushing to crimson soon!
In dreams I roam the long-forsaken places,
In scented wood, by rill and grassy howe;
And, smiling, greet the old familiar faces—
And I am happy now!
Dear Hills of Home, I ask but this of Heaven
(If thou my captive spirit wilt not free!)
That in my dying moments I be given
One last, fond kiss from thee.
1916.
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