THE cock’s clear voice into the clearer air

Where westward¹ far I roam,

Mounts with a thrill of hope,

Falls with a sigh of home.

A rural sentry², he from farm and field

The coming morn descries³,

And, mankind’s bugler⁴, wakes

The camp of enterprise.

He sings the morn upon the westward hills

Strange and remote and wild;

He sings it in the land

Where once I was a child.

He brings to me dear voices of the past,

The old land and the years:

My father calls for me,

My weeping spirit hears.

Fife, fife, into the golden air, O bird,

And sing the morning in;

For the old days are past

And new days begin.

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