• 21 August, 2010 at 08:37 #571

    Old Sheffield, my birthplace, I'm leaving behind me,
    Her forest of chimneys now fade from my view;
    I would not desert her, but fortune, unkindly,
    Tells me, in tears, I must bid her adieu.
    Lonely I go to the land of the stranger,
    Faithfully trusting that fate may prove kind;
    Fearless, I feel, I shall brave every danger,
    Yet sigh for the dear ones I'm leaving behind.

    The city of sulphur that strangers hath found thee,
    And black as thy smoke were the tales that they told;
    Had they but climbed on the hills that surround thee,
    They'd know thy black mantles have trimmings of gold.
    Here are thine outskirts, oh, what can be fairer?
    These sweet hills and dales know no factory din;
    While cottage and villa, and palace of splendour,
    All speak of the home-joys that labour must win.

    How full is my heart as I look thro' the window,
    While, round the hillside, the train rushes on
    Past the green fields, where the sons of hard labour,
    Are meeting for pleasure their day's work is done.
    Oh! play on dear friends, in cricket and football,
    Sweet be your sport in the meadow and dell;
    One, who has joined you, now bids you good-night all;
    One, who still loves you, now bids you farewell!

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