Chillingham

Lyrics

O the high valley, the little low hill And the cornfield over the sea The wind that rages and then lies still And the clouds that rest and flee! O the gray island in the rainbow haze And the long thin spits of land The roughening pastures and the stony ways And the golden flash of the sand! O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock And the fir-tree stiff and straight The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock And the rotten old five-barred gate! O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough The scent of the gorse in the air! I shall love them ever as I love them now I shall weary in Heaven to be there!