Though thou art a quaint old village,
Built upon a bleak hillside,
Though I've seen in some, more beauty,
When on rambles far and wide,
There's not one I love so dearly
As the village of my birth,
None like thee, O good old Sowerby,
None so dear upon the earth.
Visitors may come and wander
Through thy long and winding street,
Seeking for some special beauties,
Which their eyes will fail to meet;
But, to me, they need no seeking,
As I find them everywhere,
Rich in old associations
Linked with memories dear and fair.
Homely cottages and gardens,
In and round thee I behold;
Church and chapel, field and pathway,
With their interests manifold;
But a deeper feeling haunts me.
Thinking of thy school today,
Of the sweetshop and the smithy,
Where we loitered on our way.
Most of all I love the cottage,
Close beside the village street,
Where we dwelt, in happy union,
As a family complete:
Father, mother, sisters, brothers,
Sitting round the evening fire,
Hearing news or telling stories
Till the hour to retire.
Page Ref: LH_3
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