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Come, follow to these quiet moors
     Where larks frequent the skies;
Where peace grows in abundance 
     And the soaring buzzard flies.

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Walk quietly to a secret haunt,
     Where, beneath a glimmering moon,
The mad March hares frolic and leap
     All through the month of June.

 

Listen!  Hear the waterfalls
    That leap rock-studded hills
And trickle through a wooded glen
     By way of tiny *ghylls. 
 
Wild garlic‘s smell pervades the air
     From in its wooded home,
And here, beneath the damp, dark peat
     Its roots forever roam. 

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The bluebells hang their tiny heads
     Within the woodland shade;
There's  even music in the air
     In this bee-humming glade.

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The cuckoo calls each year in spring
     From nearby Hebers Ghyll,
Whilst heather’s tiny purple bells,
      Clothe August’s Yorkshire hills.

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Mankind can war with all his might;
     Destroy our world and kill,
But here, away from humankind,
     You’ll find that heaven-felt still.

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