Here's to my Native Land

Edwin Waugh

Here's to my native land;
    And here's to the heathery hills,
Where the little birds sing on the blooming
    To the dancing moorland rills.

There's a lonely little cot,
    And it stands by a spreading tree,
Where a kind old face has looked from the
    Full many a time for me;—

On the slope of a flowery dell,
    And hard by a rippling brook;
And it's oh for a peep at the chimney-top,
    Or a glint of the chimney-nook!

And there is a still churchyard,
    Where many an old friend lies;
And I fain would sleep in my native ground
    At last, when they close my eyes.

When summer days were fine,
    The lads of the fold and I
Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon
    Has died in the morning sky.

Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woods
    On a sunny summer's day;
And I wish I was helping the moorland lads
    To tumble their scented hay!

Though many a pleasant nook
    In many a land I've seen,
I'd wander back to my own green hills,
    If the wide world lay between.

They say there's bluer skies
    Across the foaming sea:—
Each man that is born has a land of his own,
    And this is the land for me!

The Poet Edwin Waugh's native land was Lancashire. He wrote a lot about the moors around his home town, Rochdale.