Lines, Written In The Travellers' Room, Wolseley Arms Inn Poem by Samuel Bamford

Fair is the prospect to my view,
Altho' it be confin'd!
But O! 'tis nothing like the scenes
Which I have left behind.

Yon eminence but shews a farm
With trees thick scatter'd round;
My hills rip out the rushin storm,
And by the clouds are crown'd.

And peaceful seems you group of cots,
With chimnies painted white,
But there is one, though far away,
More pleasing to my sight.

And Colwich bells must sweeter ring,
Before they ring as sweet
As those which o'er Saint Leonard's hang,
The Sunday folks to greet.

And Trent, too, loiters by the way,
As journeying to the main;
My streams rush onward rapidly,
The briny gulph to gain.

O there is something wanting here,
Which cannot be supplied,
Save on those hills for ever dear,
Where once I did reside.