There's a key to your soul, An adventure which you can control, It's rainy presence creeps, Down from the moors; from where wildlife weeps,
And it patiently bores, Venturous shrubs climb while black hill snores, This furry red and green, Hinting to the monster we have seen,
It's watery wrinkles, Falling fast from eyes where it twinkles, And remembers those times, Natural stone and straw didn't mean crimes,
It once meant climb and camp, And don't sit quiet, turn on the lamp, Good golden light you cast, Upon the petrified heather vast,
Every significant thought, Rolled up in a coil of whatnot, Compressed and ignored then Spun around the bracken's fingers when?
The dying past my sons, Lo' there christened romanticism runs, It's fleeting wonder flung, There with its disposed beauty unsung,
A nation's nature, Devoid of once granted portraiture, That carves their minds and loves, Into a shape resembling the doves,
Of free nations just gone, You are the people of the last one, Then a wanderer dreams, Implore do the hills; cry do the streams:
"Love us through your great radiant beams, Quell our diminishing woeful screams, And let the children discover us, Not any more will you govern us."