The farmer ploughed his merry way
In famine fields that once were grey
Sweet scent of tilling, turning turf
By great Atlantic’s churning surf.
Like an arrow straight and pure
The robin and the thrush to lure
His mind on long forgotten faces
Dreaming of romantic places.
A meadow in the far-off hills
Where life seems golden silent still
Now Tempted by the easy life
Away from trouble toil and strife.
Why should we always want for more
When history tells us from before
That land and money will not send
The hand of friendship we extend.