The Moorland Breeze

Edwin Waugh

 Of all the blithesome melody
    That wakes the warm heart's thrill,
Give me the wind that whistles free
    Across the moorland hill;
When every blade upon the lea
    Is dancing with delight,
And every bush and flower and tree
    Is singing in its flight.

When summer comes I'll wear a plume,
    With flowers of shining gold;
And it shall be the bonny broom,
    That loves the moorland wold;
And it shall wave its petals bright
    Above my cap so free,
And kiss the wild wind in its flight
    Across the lonely lea.

Blithe harper of the moorland hills,
    The desert sings to thee;
The lonely heath with music thrills
    Beneath thy touch so free:
With trembling glee its wilding strings
    Melodious revels keep,
As o'er the waste on viewless wings,
    Thy fairy fingers sweep.

In yonder valley, richly green,
    I see bright rivers run;
They wind in beauty through the scene
    And shimmer in the sun;
And they may sing and they may shine
    Down to the heaving sea;
The bonny moorland hills are mine,
    Where the wild breeze whistles free!

Oh lay me down in moorland ground,
    And make it my last bed,
With the heathery wilderness around,
    And the bonny lark o'erhead:
Let fern and ling around me cling,
    And green moss o'er me creep;
And the sweet wild mountain breezes
    Above my slumbers deep.

Edwin Waugh wrote extensively about the Lancashire moors near his home town of Rochdale.