There in the morning gale I glance towards,
the brae as I feel its soothing and hale breeze.
Beyond the glebe in the bough I see as I gander,
are twain sparrows that twitter in the meadows.
And I can see the sight of rowans that skitter,
the streams of the murky swales with such ease.
Beyond the knoll as one eavesdrops I can hear,
the whirr of snicker of bairns among the billows.
They romp in frisk so blithesome and so droll,
within the addle fronds with their loving kith.
And within the roses so ruddy and the thicket,
I see the shrew saunter and the fox scamper.
I breathe the breath of a new fresh midday,
and feel the soothing gleam of the sun lithe.
A blustery storm from the horizon approaches,
and the shutters begin to afterwards judder.
Then the storm frazzles as the frumpish soil,
is covered in wimples of puddles so laggard.
After a while the starkness of the day prevails,
over the fringe of the lonesome moorland anew.
And the briskly puddles soon dwine for the nonce,
as the tawny leaves of the trees then staggered.
Hitherto the sound of travails can be averred,
from within the longsome byres there so few.
The lovely blooms of the broad meadows blossom,
amid the winsome oak trees hither and thither.
Henceforth the fronds become tawny then amain,
as winter wrests the taut rigidity of the ferns.
The harsh ground spreads with the dollop of snow,
a telling sign that there is change in the weather.
Therewith I warm myself forsooth under the hearth,
as a chunk of wood afterwards quickly burns.
It is a time when my dearest days and nights come,
with the delectable sounds of the sprightful moors.
And to hearken back to my wistful days of wayfare,
when I was a younker in this beloved domain.
They are the tales of yore when life was tilled,
by the toilsome sweat of the hardened boors.
Whilom, when life from there beyond the welkin,
with my kinsfolk was so meaningful and fain.
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