Thomas William Heney

Now while so many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging,

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft, May kiss that face and stay; And happy beams that from above

The bridle reins hang loose in the hold of his lean left hand; As the tether gives, the horse bends browsing down to the sand, On the pommel the right hand rests with a smoking briar black,

What cares the rose if the buds which are its pride Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride? The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things,