Hips and haws : five country songs

The hillside green with bracken 
And the red plough land,
The brownish hurrying rivers 
Where the willows stand,
The thicket and the meadows, 
And the strong oak trees,
O, tell me, traveller, have yer 
Seen the likes o' these?

The mists along the common 
At the close of day,
They're lovely when the twilight 
Makes the vale look grey,
The lanes be long and lonely, 
But they all lead home;
I be thinkin' lads are foolish 
When they wants to roam!

Come put yer little hand in mine
And let it be at rest.
It minds me of a tired bird 
Within a warm brown nest.
And bend that pretty head o' yourn, 
And lay it on my breast.

The lambs, they all be wearied out,
I penn'd them in the fold,
The lights along the Malvern hills
They shine like stars of gold.
And yonder rises up the moon,
All round and big and bold.

There's not a single passer-by,
Nor sound along the lane,
And oh! the earth is smelling sweet, 
Like meadows after rain.
Then come a little closer, maid,
And kiss me once again!

I see'd yer turn the other day 
To watch a chap go by 
Because he wore a uniform 
And held his shoulders high, 
And then yer wouldn't even smile, 
Or say a word to I.

Me hands may not be lilywhite,
Me coat may not be trim,
But you may know if fightin' comes, 
I'll fight as well as him!
Although they pad his shoulders out, 
To make his waist look slim.

I hav'n't got no buttons 
On a showy coat of red,
I hav'n't got no soldiers cap 
To wear upon me head.
But I can love yer just the same, 
When all be done and said!

Bells across the meadows 
When the sky was blue, 
Used to bid me tarry 
All the summer through: 
"Stay, oh happy lover,
For your love is true."

Now the bells, they call me, 
Call me from her side: 
"Out upon the high road 
Since her love has died. 
Maids be ever fickle,
But the world is wide."

Oh, it's good to be alive, man,
Good to take the road and tramp, 
When the morning smells of meadows
And the lanes are cool and damp.

There's just light enough to see by 
Growing stronger as you go,
And the air is sort o' hushed like, 
Breathing very long and slow.

And the little furry creatures 
Think the world is theirs for play, 
Sitting still to watch you coming, 
Half afraid to run away.

And there's not a human stirring, 
To disturb the field or fen.
Oh, you'll never find your God, man, 
If you do not find Him then!