My heart is in the hills of home,
And in the winds of March,
It sings within Tintagel's foam,
And Gloucester's soaring arch.
It floats amid the rain-wet trees,
And golden fields of corn,
O'er Kentish heights and marshy leas
By fog-bound shores forlorn.
It races o'er the sun-swept Fells,
And walks the secret lanes,
It runs upon the open Downs,
Where Saxons fought with Danes.
It laughs along the pebbled brooks,
By ancient timber'd inns,
It dances with the wind-blown rooks
And daffodils of ...