Along the Road to Carrington, When lissom Spring is here
The soft west wind shakes down in showers
The crabtree and the sloe bush flowers.
The chaffinch rings his silver bell, From every hazel in the dell,
And wayside whins are cushioned gold
Before the Road to Carrington
Before the Spring is old.
Along the Road to Carrington, When Summer fills the land
The dell’s seagreen, and shivering corn
Waves far along the blue skied morn.
And yonder where the Hill pines sway, The moorfoot braes are swept all day,
By wine like winds from off the sea.
Along the Road to Carrington
By honey scented lea.
Along the Road to Carrington, When Autumn gilds the green
The breeze that went to sleep at noon
Wakes up with twilight shades to croon.
The twittering birds to rest where now, They perch on every sheltered bough,
While fields of stubble stretch afar
Along the Road to Carrington
Beneath the evening star.
Along the Road to Carrington, When Winter comes at last
The furrows of the frosty field
Show dull December’s death white yield.
But such things are beyond our ken
For in some bielded but or ben,
We sit; nor think that we should go
Along the Road to Carrington
Amongst the drifting snow.