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Sir Henry Newbolt - April On Waggon Hill
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Lad, and can you rest now,
  There beneath your hill!
Your hands are on your breast now,
  But is your heart so still?
`Twas the right death to die, lad,
  A gift without regret,
But unless truth`s a lie, lad,
  You dream of Devon yet.

Ay, ay, the year`s awaking,
  The fire`s among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
  The curlew`s on the wing;
Primroses are out, lad,
  On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad;
  From Brendon to the sea.

I know what`s in your heart, lad,---
  The mare he used to hunt---
And her blue market-cart, lad,
  With posies tied in front---
We miss them from the moor road,
  They`re getting old to roam,
The road they`re on`s a sure road
  And nearer, lad, to home.

Your name, the name they cherish?
  `Twill fade, lad, `tis true:
But stone and all may perish
  With little loss to you.
While fame`s fame you`re Devon, lad,
  The Glory of the West;
Till the roll`s called in heaven, lad,
  You may well take your rest.
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