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.

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