by Keith Cresswell
Still echo's the bravest old county
With our forefathers ancient song,
Still echo the land with beating heart,
For the road has been weary and long,
That old dusty track worn deep cross the hill,
Still sounds to the labourers tred
Cold shaft of the winter,
Blows chill through the woods
Blue starlight fills the skies,
The haunting song of the midnight fox,
Calls to the shepherd across the frost,
To search for the lamb that is lost
By riverside amid the curling mist
Where towering trees each grip entwined,
Across the blackness of the flood,
There softly sounds the lowing ox,
In contented innocence they rest,
And do not fear the rush of the day
Modern eyes see nothing of the past
Hidden now behind sad shallow minds,
For across the landscape of passing years,
No monument reminds us of the tears,
Or the sound of our father song.
And now we wonder and strain to see,
What truth in cruel rumours words
All fearing an ending to soft summer days,
Of safety and comfort, far from the clamour,
Or political voices, and threatening skies.
That hillside road, will we walk again,
A ragged slow parade of men,
In peace will we see this county lie
Between the mountains and changing sky,
And wish for the days that are gone.
In lonely silence, still we hear the echo's fall,
Once more the ghosts in step across the hill,
An army of comrades from distant years,
Who shared their dreams, and wept their tears.
We, no different now, beneath the skin,
From country folk, our ancient kith and kin,
Who lie beneath old Herefords green hills.
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