That land afore from which I sprang calls true
As church bell clear upon a Sunday morn,
And memory such of all I know or knew
Comes rushing back as echoes I have known;
The farm springs to my sight in green and gold,
Pastoral scenes there burnished by the sun;
Sweet memories rise in tears eyes cannot hold
And silver rivulets down worn cheeks now run.
There sparkles bright the lakes and streams I swam,
The trees I scarred with hearts of love once dreamed,
The hills still ringing with proud songs I sang,
Broad pastured fields whereon soft moonlight gleamed.
A boy once left those fields, the earth to roam…
And of a world so wide, still calls them home.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.